


Night Howls on the Hudson

by Silbrith



Series: Caffrey Conversation [29]
Category: Supernatural, White Collar
Genre: Gen, Mystery, Paranormal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-07-17 20:08:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 55,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16102892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silbrith/pseuds/Silbrith
Summary: The proposed development of a marsh near Columbia University unleashes an ancient spirit bent on retribution. Neal and Sam become increasingly ill as they suffer the wrath of a goddess. Fluff: Renaissance Festival, LARP, Fall Equinox - Mabon. September 2005. Crossed Lines story #5, a fusion of Supernatural with Caffrey Conversation.





	1. Painting under the Influence

_Notes: Night Howls on the Hudson takes place after the events in Dark Rabbit and Harlequin's Shadow._ _The first chapter contains the essentials of the backstory for new readers. I've also written a post_ _on the status of the key players at the beginning of the story for our blog_ _. The post is called "_ [ _Destination: Night Howls on the Hudson_ ](https://pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com/2018/09/destination-night-howls-on-hudson.html) _." See the notes at the end of the chapter for more information._

 

* * *

_"A dog howled. Weird became the night."  
— Langston Hughes_

Neal lifted his brush from the canvas and stood back to study the painting.

A damp wind seeped through the cracks in the stone walls of the chamber, causing the wax tapers to flicker. His eyes burned from painting at night, but the Marquesa had a luminous radiance which he could capture only by candlelight.

Her boudoir was decorated in the latest style. Neal doubted Napoleon had bestowed more luxurious appointments upon Josephine. The daybed was tented with dark maroon velvet hangings which were suspended from a gold gilt crown. The silk sheets were tinted a soft mauve which became chestnut in the unilluminated shadows.

The Marquesa wore an empire gown of white diaphanous silk, designed to enhance rather than conceal. Her smile invited him to lounge beside her. He'd posed her with a lyre, which she occasionally strummed while he painted. When her graceful fingers plucked the strings, his body yearned to take the place of the lyre. He resisted the compulsion. The painting must be finished tonight. Resolutely, he focused on the canvas . . .

"You've toiled long enough, _mi amor_ ," she remarked, twirling a long strand of flaxen blonde hair which hung in a loose curl between her breasts. "Come sit beside me." By now the tapers were mere stubs. Soon he'd need to replace them.

"Only a few more minutes," he pleaded, pausing to stretch his paint-smudged fingers. A drop of ocher paint had fallen on the white ruffle of his shirt sleeve. He glanced down at his wine-red doublet. No smears on it, fortunately. She'd urged him to strip off his shirt. But if he stood in front of her, clad only in his silk breeches, he knew what the result would be. It had already happened far too often.

A scrabbling sound interrupted his musings. He glanced up to see a shadow dart behind the bed hangings in the corner. Too large to be a cat, what was it?

"Neal, answer me!"

He felt his shoulder being shaken. Neal turned from the canvas to see Mozzie staring at him. The boudoir was dissolving into mist. The Marquesa had already vanished. Where was he?

Neal looked down, shocked. Gone were his silk doublet and breeches. He was clad only in sleep pants. The easel was real enough. And there was his portrait of the Marquesa, mocking him. He must have been painting for hours. He couldn't stop now. If only he closed his eyes, she'd return to him.

Mozzie shoved him into a chair. "Don't move. I'll get you a glass of wine."

"When did you get here?" Neal raked his hair off his forehead. His dinette table was littered with paint tubes, his palette laden with colors. That portrait he'd made  . . . It looked like a painting he'd seen by Goya.

"A few minutes ago. I stopped by on the way to the Emporium. How long have you been painting?"

Neal had no memory of when he started, but bright sunshine was now pouring through the skylight. According to the clock in the bookcase, it was already ten o'clock.

"Forget the wine. I need coffee." Neal stood up to fill the kettle.

"Stay where you are. I can make it. You still haven't answered me." Mozzie retreated to the kitchenette and reached into the cabinet for a bag of coffee beans. He measured out a scoop for the grinder. "It's Astrena, isn't it?"

Neal nodded glumly. He was once more fully in the present reality, no longer in some Spanish palace. Just his luck to be on first name terms with a Greek goddess. And if it had to be a goddess, why couldn't it be Aphrodite? Instead, he was bound to Astrena, goddess of witches and vampires.

He'd never even heard of her till a few months ago. But now he and Sam Winchester were psychically linked to her. According to the lore, Astrena established a connection with her victims by drinking their blood. Once the link was in place, she could enter their minds at will, implanting dreams, feeding off their life force. She must have been gorging herself on him all night.

Mozzie turned on the gas burner. "I hold myself partially responsible. If Janet and I hadn't taken it into our heads to enjoy the spring frogs of Buttonwood, none of this would have happened."

He was right but Neal didn't blame him or his girlfriend. Mozzie couldn't have known that the swamp in South New Jersey contained not only a spirit capable of inflicting curses but a nest of vampires. Neal and Sam had been captured and somehow wound up being donors to Astrena.

"Were you dreaming that you were Goya? He's rumored to be one of her victims."

"I guess." Neal went into the kitchen to retrieve the French press. Mozzie had picked an espresso roast from the cabinet. Good choice. He needed all the help he could get to remove the cobwebs from his brain. He still longed to continue painting.

"I'm familiar with Goya's works, but I've never known you to forge them." Mozzie returned to the easel. "Your technique is masterful. Anyone would think this is an undiscovered original." He paused, his eyes assuming a glazed expression—the look of a connoisseur spotting an undiscovered treasure at a flea market. A new business opportunity was taking hold.

Neal moved quickly to quash it before Mozzie got carried away. "We are _not_ opening up a side operation," he said firmly.

"It never hurts to have backup plans in place. Don't destroy that painting. I'll happily store all your 'under-the-influence' masterworks. We must take advantage of every moment. Once Chloe removes the spell, the enchantment will be broken."

"That can't happen soon enough." Dean's girlfriend was fast becoming an expert on herbal potions. She was testing concoctions in hopes of finding a cure.

"Yes, well, I can understand you're not thrilled with your situation," Mozzie acknowledged.

That was putting it mildly. He and Sam had speculated in their gloomier moments that Astrena hastened the deaths of many famous artists, musicians, and writers—among them Van Gogh, Mozart, Titian, Shelley, and Beethoven. There was no way to estimate how many other artists had suffered the same fate.

"The last instance you'd mentioned to me was when you dreamed you and Astrena were chatting with Mozart. That was a couple of weeks ago. Any other visits?"

"Last week in France," Neal admitted. "I dreamed I was Van Gogh living in Auvers-sur-Oise. I didn't have my artist supplies with me so I couldn't paint anything. I can't remember ever having felt so frustrated."

"Then this may cheer you up. I found a message from Bobby on the cell phone which I use for the Winchesters. That Irish hunter Finnerty, who's been looking for the herbal guide Chloe wants, believes he's found it."

Mozzie's news was better than coffee. Chloe had discovered a promising reference to the book which had been written by Harriet Beaufort in the early nineteenth century. The obscure text was not listed in any catalogue. Since Harriet spent much of her life in Dublin, the Winchesters had asked Finnerty for help.

"Is that why you came to see me?" Neal asked.

"Not exactly," he hedged. "I returned from France yesterday to find Janet in quite a state. She has a new cause, which means I do, too."

 _And that means so do I_. Neal watched uneasily as Mozzie placed a canvas tote on the dinette table and pulled out a stack of flyers.

Janet was a costume designer who incorporated her love for the natural world in her designs. Her interest in insects had led Mozzie to adopt the cause of the yellow-faced bee. Her desire to experience spring frog choruses had led to their vampire encounter. What had she adopted now?

"I found Janet's apartment a beehive of activity," Mozzie said, his eyes twinkling at the reference to his beloved bees even as his expression quickly grew serious. "The marsh must be saved!" He pulled open the lapels of his worn corduroy jacket to reveal a t-shirt emblazoned with "Save Our Marsh" in bold letters. The slogan was displayed over a scene of ducks swimming through grassy reeds with a dragonfly skimming overhead. Neal detected Janet's style in the design.

"What marsh?" he asked, even as he hesitated to find out. At work they were in the midst of an op to capture the master art thief Klaus Mansfeld and his brother Rolf. The new term at Columbia University had started two weeks ago, and he was already up to his eyeballs in coursework. He'd just spent the night being manipulated by a goddess. Did he really need another complication in his life?

Clearly the answer was _yes_.

Mozzie frowned as he handed Neal a flyer. "You go to classes at Columbia and yet you're ignorant of what could be the environmental catastrophe of the century"—he shrugged—"or at least that's what Janet assures me."

If ever there was a sign that Janet and Mozzie were soulmates, it was their mutual penchant for adopting causes and exaggerating their significance. In their eyes what to anyone else seemed like a minor problem could quickly balloon to cosmic proportions. Although physics was not in Neal's skillset, even he could tell that Janet and Mozzie were like two atomic nuclei. Once their interests fused, they could generate enough energy to start a chain reaction leading to the inevitable atomic explosion. Neal braced himself as the faint outlines of mushroom-shaped clouds appeared on the horizon.

These days Mozzie was better informed about Columbia than Neal. He appeared to spend at least as much time there—both above ground and in the tunnel system—and had accumulated a collection of aliases with associated ID cards, ranging from a Bosnian exchange student to a professor in the astrophysics department.

"Lay it on me, Mozz. What did Columbia do now?"

"It's not entirely their fault. Sport enthusiasts and their false gods share in the responsibility." Mozzie was not an admirer of any team sport. He gave Neal's fencing club a pass and Neal didn't disagree with him that the bouts were more closely related to chess than football. "Alums with more sense than money have pressed the university to enlarge the athletic complex next to Inwood Hill Park. Work began a couple of weeks ago. I've been so preoccupied with the U-boat con, I haven't been here for Janet, but I'm now prepared to focus like a laser beam on it."

A nuclear-fueled laser beam. When Mozzie began shoving the paint tubes aside, Neal leaped to their rescue and capped them. With one last look at the Marquesa, he dismantled his impromptu Goya studio. Perhaps an ecological disaster was just what he needed to free himself from thoughts of a goddess. He could clean his brushes while Mozzie filled him in.

"It was Chloe's coven who initially alerted Janet," Mozzie said, following him into the kitchen.

Neal knew that Chloe had joined several Wicca covens as research for her urban fantasy novels. She was currently staying at a B&B run by Peony Mirliton who was head of the Silver Cauldron coven. "Is Janet now a member too?"

"Not only Janet but your cousin Angela as well," Mozzie said nonchalantly, filling two mugs with coffee and handing him one.

"When did this happen?" Neal asked, dismayed. He'd been trying to shield Angela from anything having to do with the paranormal or the occult since her misadventure in Shepherdstown. Angela had come within a hair's breadth of being seduced by a vampire. Neal had kept the existence of vampires a secret from her. In hindsight, that might have been a mistake.

"Did she neglect to tell you? You know how these things go. Angela met Chloe in the kung fu class which Maggie runs at the Aloha Emporium." Mozzie paused to smile. "All those nubile women learning the Way of the Orchid. After the workout, they have a late breakfast at the Emporium. Conversation spins from one topic to another. You really should sit in sometime. It's quite enlightening."

An image flashed through Neal's mind—not of the Marquesa, but Mozzie, surrounded by Maggie, Janet, Chloe, Diana, Keiko, Angela, and Sara. The women were all dressed in their yoga pants and tank tops while he lorded over them like a hookah-smoking caterpillar.

"The Silver Cauldron organizes field trips to Inwood Hill Park," Mozzie continued. "I've gone there on many an outing with Janet."

Neal was also familiar with the site. It was bordered on the north by the Harlem River where Angela's boyfriend Michael rowed as a member of Columbia's crew. The Harlem River Regatta was held there every June.

"The coven declared war when construction of the university sports complex began. On the edge of the area to be developed is a fragile estuary where freshwater and saltwater ecosystems mingle harmoniously together. We have the testimonials of several leading biologists to confirm its value. Unique glacial geological formations will be wantonly destroyed if development proceeds. But the powers at Columbia are determined to sell the marsh to pay for this outrageous temple to musclebound athletes."

Neal gradually tuned Mozzie out as he wiped his brushes on rags. Not that he wasn't a friend of nature, but construction had already started. The property which was being redeveloped currently contained an old parking lot and a few derelict warehouses. It wasn't like Columbia was cutting down an ancient redwood forest.

"Neal, are you paying attention to me? You're not back in Spain, are you? Because if you are, stop cleaning those brushes and get back to painting!"

"I am _not_ with the Marquesa!" Neal huffed. "I heard every word. You said the construction crew found some old potshards."

"Not just random bits of pottery but priceless artifacts from the Lenape. They're the Native American tribe who lived on this island before the Colonialist overlords forced them out."

Interesting. Apparently, Mozzie now lumped early European settlers with the industrial complex and the bureaucratic establishment under the ever-expanding umbrella of The Enemy.

"The university dispatched an archaeologist to investigate the site, but he didn't find it worthy of preservation. He should be disbarred!"

"I don't think you can dis—"

Mozzie stopped his objection with a slap on the dinette table which nearly toppled his coffee mug. "Mark my words. Nothing good will come from this. Do you know there are ancient sacred caves in Inwood Hill Park only a few minutes away? The native spirits will rise up and exact vengeance. That sports complex will be cursed."

Neal winced. "No more talk of curses, please."

"Ah, yes," he acknowledged, making a face. "Didn't mean to rub salt in the wound." He continued in a slightly lowered tone. "We intend to use—"

"Wait a minute. You said _we_. Are you now a member of the coven too?"

"Peony made such a compelling case, how could I resist? I'm the first wizard they've ever had. And you know what an authority she is on potions." He frowned disapprovingly. "You shouldn't grimace. I'm helping Peony and Chloe find something to cure your and Sam's affliction. A little gratitude, please."

"Sorry, Mozz. I appreciate all your efforts."

He blew away his apology. "Nothing will distract me and my Wicca sisters from educating the world about the crime being committed. We'll hold a war strategy after we've purified ourselves during the rite of Mabon."

"What's that?"

"The autumnal equinox, of course. Drink more coffee. Your brain's still addled if you don't know what Mabon is. I got back from Paris just in time. It will be a small ceremony. We're holding it in Inwood Hill Park. You're welcome to join us."

Neal wiped his hands on a towel. Catching up on lost sleep began to sound like an excellent idea. Mozzie and his causes did have one benefit, though. The Marquesa was no longer beckoning to him. She'd been shoved aside by his chatter about Chloe and the marsh. Picturing Mozzie as a wizard would drive any goddess away.

When the link had first been detected, Peter had been concerned about possible repercussions to the con they were running. He'd insisted Neal inform the team. Diana's partner, Christie Vintner, was Neal's doctor which simplified matters. What other doctor would have even bothered to listen to the idea that he was being influenced by a curse, psychic connection, or whatever the hell you wanted to call it?

Christie had been surprisingly sympathetic. Even Diana, who ordinarily never missed out on an opportunity to mock him, was giving him a pass. After the Van Gogh episode, Neal had gone in for more tests. Christie had called him yesterday with the results. Perhaps that was why he'd been dreaming of the Marquesa.

**Haverstraw, New York. Sunday morning.**

Dean Winchester replaced the cap on the gasoline can and took a moment to scan the woods. He and Sam were standing beside an open grave in a small forgotten cemetery in the Hudson Valley. Nobody saw them unearth the coffin. There was no one to witness them salt and burn the bones of one born-to-be-mean spirit. The ghost had been a serial killer in his first life and his second one as well. And he'd almost been the end of Sam.

They'd spent the past five days in the small New York town. They couldn't bring back to life the three people who'd died, but they could ensure that the ghost wouldn't return to harm anyone else.

Dean exchanged looks with Sam. "You wanna be the one to dispatch him?"

He nodded. "I was trying to think of something decent to say about the guy."

"Seriously? Like thank him for trying to spear you with a javelin?"

Sam shrugged. "Yeah, I know you probably think it's stupid. But I figure everyone's got at least a little shred of decency."

"Not this guy, Sammy."

"You're probably right. So . . ." He exhaled and lit the match, tossing it into the grave. "Goodbye."

They watched as the fire caught hold and blazed. Salt and burn—the only way to purify a corpse so it could never come back, never be appropriated by a demon, Lucifer . . . or a goddess.

Dean sneaked a glance at his brother. Sam was leaning on the shovel, exhausted from what should have been a trivial task of unearthing the coffin. The ground wasn't baked hard like some graveyards. He shouldn't have even worked up a sweat.

Over the past three weeks, Sam had been on the highway to total collapse. He was living on coffee to stay awake. When he dozed off, he was tormented by dreams which he couldn't remember but left him wasted. This job was the final straw.

"Where are we going next?" Sam asked.

"The hospital."

Predictably, Sam grimaced at his answer, but even more telling was that he didn't relinquish his hold on the shovel. "Not that again," he muttered.

"Yeah, that again. Let the docs pump you with meds. Make you sleep. Then we'll see."

"You can't hunt alone."

"If it's something I can't handle, I'll call Bobby. You're no good hunting like this and you know it."

Sam let out a huff to register his dissatisfaction, not that it was necessary. Dean knew he wouldn't agree without a fight. But this was one argument his older and wiser brother was determined to win.

"Going to a hospital's not the answer," Sam protested. "They have no way of removing the spell. Besides, you already had me checked out. The doctors couldn't find anything wrong."

Dean reached for his phone.

"Who are you calling?" Sam asked suspiciously.

"Bobby. Maybe he can talk sense into you." _And provide a safe place for you to rest._ Bobby had been staying at a house in New Jersey which was owned by a fellow hunter. He'd probably go along with Sam hanging out with him. He could give Sam some research to do so he wouldn't feel useless.

"You boys keeping out of trouble?" Bobby asked when he answered. His growl indicated he knew Dean wouldn't tell him if they weren't.

"More or less. You gonna be around for a few days?"

"Nah, I'm leaving as soon as I throw a few things together. Rufus has a witch in Delaware he needs help with. If you're not far away, could you stop by? I got a message from Finnerty that the book Chloe wants— _Airmid's Garden_ —should arrive tomorrow. I figure you want to get it to her right away." He pitched his voice to a low rumble. "How's Sam?"

Dean cast a quick glance at him. He was still slouched over the shovel, staring into the fire. "Not good."

"Sam's strong. He'll hold it together till a cure's found."

Dean wished he had Bobby's confidence. "We'll swing by your place and stay till the package arrives."

When Dean told Sam about the book, his only response was to nod absently, still lost in his head.

Dean checked the grave. The bones were already blackened. "That fire doesn't need us. Let's go sit under the tree and I'll give Chloe a call." He was glad to see Sam didn't raise any objections.

Dean put Chloe on speaker so Sam could hear her. A scheme was forming. There was a good chance he could persuade Sam to stay at Peony's B&B. Chloe's landlady was squirrelly, but she'd taken a liking to both him and Sam. She'd probably offer a special cursed rate they could afford. More importantly, she could keep an eye on Sam when Chloe was at work.

Chloe was so excited when she heard about the book that she offered to punt work to pick it up.

"No need. We're in the area. I can drop off the book and Sam, too." Dean explained the situation, ignoring Sam's embarrassed grunts. "Do you know if Peony has any vacancies?"

"I don't need to check. I've been trying to persuade Maia to come down and had reserved a room for her. She mentioned that she needs to do some research in the Rare Book Library at Columbia University. That's not far from Peony's. I suggested she come down this week so she could celebrate Mabon with us. If she hears Sam will be here, she'll come for sure."

In more ways than one. Sam's girlfriend Maia was the best thing which had happened to him in a long time, and she apparently felt the same way about him. The kid already had a goofy look on his face from hearing the news.

Maia was a grad student at Yale. She'd become friends with Chloe through the coven of Peony's sister who lived in New Haven. As a general rule, Dean stayed away from anything Wicca. It conjured up images of women making daisy chains in the meadow. This time, though, he was giving Maia and Chloe a pass. Chloe's heroine in her urban fantasies was a Wiccan. Maia was in the doctorate program at Yale, studying the classics. Her interest in the pagan group was more academic. Maia had been the first woman Sam was interested in since his girlfriend died. Reason enough to like her.

"This will be the first time for the Silver Cauldron to conduct a ceremony for the autumnal equinox," Chloe said. "We'll hold it in a park north of Columbia University. Several of the university students have joined the coven."

"Dean, you should stay too," Sam suggested. "A city as big as New York must have some malevolent spirits."

"Great idea!" Chloe seconded. "But no need to look for a job. Dean, haven't you always wanted to lead a group of warriors into battle?"

"Do it all the time. Except it's just me and Sam."

"That's just it. This is your chance to fight alongside hundreds. Well, maybe fifty. Angela's not sure of the exact number."

"Angela? Are you talking about Neal's cousin Angela?"

"That's right, and now coven sister Angela."

Dean snorted. Neal must love that. Dean had helped him and Peter rescue her from a vampire several weeks ago. Neal had insisted that Angela not be told that vampires exist. If Neal weren't cursed already, he'd certainly feel like he was now.

"Angela's one of the organizers for a Renaissance festival the university is holding north of Columbia University. As part of the activities they're going to stage a LARP." When Dean didn't immediately respond, she added, "Are you familiar with the concept? It's an acronym for live action role-playing. Participants wear costumes and stage mock battles. You'll like it. This LARP will be of the Battle of Shrewsbury."

Sam was snickering. Dean decided to play along. "Aren't shrews a type of mice? You better not be asking me to put on mouse ears."

Sam broke into a laugh. "The Battle of Shrewsbury is one of the most famous battles in English history, doofus. It took place in the early fifteenth century between the forces of Henry IV and rebels led by Henry Hotspur."

For the first time in weeks, Sam was looking genuinely relaxed and happy. Weren't they due a break? They'd been fighting demon scum nonstop for over six weeks. Sam was still well enough to enjoy the festival. How much longer would that last? More to the point, if Chloe didn't come up with a cure, how much longer would Sam be alive?

There'd been precious few moments to act like goofballs when they were kids. Sam was excited to take a week off, see his girl, and have some fun. That sounded good to Dean, too.

And maybe, just maybe, they'd catch a break, and that book would provide the cure.

"So which commander would I be?" Dean asked. "Hotspur? I like the sound of that."

"He lost the battle," Sam pointed out.

"Not if I'm the leader."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

The coffee he'd drunk in the morning hadn't been enough to quell the exhaustion which set in as soon as Mozzie left. Neal stretched out on the couch, intending to take a short nap. When the ringing of his cell phone roused him from sleep, he was dismayed to see it was already late afternoon.

He reached for the phone, hoping it wasn't Mozzie with breaking news from the "Save Our Marsh" battleground. Thankfully, Richard's name was on the phone display. Richard Carlisle was a fellow grad student at Columbia. Neal sat up to take the call.

"Travis and I are leaving for the meeting. You're on the way. Would you like a ride?"

"What meeting?" Neal asked before the significance dawned on him and he sank back into the cushions. _Crap_.

Richard snorted his disbelief. "Surely you didn't forget. Renaissance festival ring a bell?"

"You just saved my hide. It completely slipped my mind." Angela was helping coordinate the music, dance, and science exhibits. She'd given him his marching orders earlier in the week.

"You were painting?"

Richard's studio was next to his. He knew how Neal tuned out the rest of the world when absorbed in a project. Could he blame his forgetfulness on the Marquesa? At least this time when he woke up, he wasn't working on her portrait.

"Relax. You have plenty of time," Richard added, not waiting for his reply.

Neal could hear Travis in the background, saying it'd take them thirty minutes to reach June's place from their apartment in the Village.

Angela was already mad at Henry for being away on a business trip. She'd accused him of deliberately planning to be gone during her hour of need. Her assertion was plainly ridiculous. Henry was the biggest ham of all the cousins. He would have loved participating in the LARP. The opposing leaders were each named Henry. He would have wanted to play both parts.

This was Columbia University's first year to hold a Renaissance festival. The history, English, art, science, and music departments had all planned events. For over twenty years, a one-day medieval festival had been held on a Saturday in late September in Fort Tryon Park, just south of Mozzie and Janet's beloved Inwood Hill Park. The location was ideal since the Cloisters dominated the hillside setting. Columbia had persuaded the festival organizers to leave their props in place for an extra day. The food and market vendors were happy to have the additional sales.

The LARP component was particularly popular with students. The much anticipated battle was scheduled to be the opening event so that afterward everyone could relax and enjoy the rest of the festival.

From Neal's perspective, one of the best parts was that Sara would be there. Angela had roped in all the participants in her kung fu class to help out. Janet, who was a costume designer, was designated the official costume consultant. The other women—Sara, Keiko, Diana, and Maggie—would be performing Renaissance dances along with members of the dance department. Neal and Sara were already plotting ways to sneak away from the others to meet.

They'd initially agreed to date in secret to avoid the well-meaning but misguided matchmaking attempts of certain friends who were just a little too nosy about their private lives. They dubbed their strategy the Clueless con and had given themselves the aliases of Matthew and Alicia which they could use as code words for themselves. Peter and Henry knew Neal dated a woman named Alicia, but they had no idea she was really Sara.

Was it overly complicated? Of course. But that made it even more intriguing. They both wore disguises when they went out. So far no one knew the truth, and they were determined to keep it that way.

Hiding their relationship had become even more a necessity when a fellow student at Columbia had been discovered to be an agent for the international criminal organization Ydrus. Bianka had a studio close to Neal's in Watson Hall. She'd been making a play for him, and now he was supposed to con her that he was falling in love with her. Clueless con or not, his dates with Sara would have to be concealed until the op against Ydrus was concluded.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

By the time Neal, Richard, and Travis arrived at their designated room in the basement of the student center, Angela was already passing out instructions. The chairs were arranged into several groups with signs proclaiming the various specialties. Neal saw Sara talking to Keiko and the other dancers.

Aidan was standing in the science section. When they walked in, he waved them over.

"Has Angela given you your assignment?" Neal asked.

"I'm trying to keep a low profile," Aidan muttered, casting a furtive glance over his shoulder. He was safe for the moment as Angela had gone over to speak with the dancers. "I'll participate in the battle and that's it. What are your assignments?"

"Neal and I will be wandering minstrels," Richard said. "Strumming a guitar sounded like the least amount of work."

"Maybe for you," Aidan said gloomily. "I can't stroll around a Renaissance festival with a synthesizer strapped to my neck."

"You can hang out with me," Travis offered. "The physics and astronomy departments are collaborating on the science tent. We'll have exhibits on Galileo, Tycho Brahe, and Da Vinci."

"Will you include any armillary spheres?" a familiar alto voice asked. Neal turned around to see Diana and Christie approaching them. Renaissance astronomy was featured in the stories Diana was writing. Travis, as her technical advisor, had given himself a crash course on the subject.

"Of course," Travis assured her. "The astronomy department has a collection of antique instruments. We'll bring along a couple of examples and display photos of the others."

"Angela signed me up to dance," Diana said, "but I'm going to switch. After the battle, some of the larpers will hold demonstrations of Renaissance fighting techniques. We'll have crossbows, maces, warhammers, staffs, swords—"

"You're speaking my language," Aidan declared, his face lighting up. He was their fencing captain and would be in his element. "I'll help with the swords."  He and Diana took off shortly afterward to join the larpers in another room. Richard and Travis drifted off to speak with Angela.

"Do you have any assignment?" Neal asked Christie.

"Travis suggested I help out in the Renaissance medical tent. The pre-med students are preparing graphics on surgery during the period. It may be one of the most popular exhibits." Christie chuckled. "The kids will think we're staging an early Halloween horror show." She added in a lower tone, "Any additional symptoms I should be aware of?"

Neal shook his head. In the din of excited chatter, no one was paying attention to their conversation. "No new ones, but the old ones are becoming more intense." He described his night of painting with the Marquesa.

She winced sympathetically. "I can see my recommendation for you to get more rest will be even more of a challenge. I don't advise sleep meds. The side effects with whatever else is going on—"

"No drugs," Neal agreed firmly. "I don't want to risk it."

"Have you spoken with Peter about the blood work results?"

"Not yet. I didn't want to put a damper on his weekend. Tomorrow will be soon enough."

"I understand, but he needs to be told," she admonished.

That was the downside of having Diana's partner for a doctor. If he didn't comply, Diana would be on his case too, and he already had enough misery in his life.

"I met Chloe last week when Diana dragged me to her kung fu practice," Christie said. "I don't usually get up that early on a Saturday morning unless I'm on call. Chloe and I talked afterward about your case."

"I can imagine what you must think about me relying on an herbal potion for a cure."

"You might be surprised. Did you know Chloe's Wicca coven has their station next to the medical tent?" When Neal started to laugh, she added, "Please don't start with the witch doctor jokes! I'm sure I'll hear plenty next weekend. But the idea is accurate. In the Early Renaissance, many witches were revered like we value homeopaths. There was a distinction between good witches— the wise women they were called—who used plants for healing and witches who employed witchcraft to harm others. It was only during the reign of Elizabeth that the real persecution began."

"When did you become so knowledgeable about witches?" he asked, surprised.

"It was your case," she admitted. "I must admit that when you first told me about your experience in the witch house in Connecticut, I was concerned you were losing your hold on reality. But Peter confirmed what you'd seen. Chloe's been quite an education about witches. She also assured me there won't be any malicious ones at the Wicca tent."

"That's a comfort." Should he now call Chloe a good witch? Would Dean clobber him if he did?

The preparations continued into the evening with only a quick break to fetch sandwiches from the eatery on the ground floor. It was past eight o'clock before Angela declared herself satisfied.

Richard and Travis were still meeting with the larpers when Neal was ready to leave. It was a beautiful night with mild temperatures—perfect for a walk. All he needed was the right companion.

"Going my way?" he asked Sara, already knowing the answer. Sara was subletting a friend's apartment on West 111th, only a few blocks north of June's mansion.

"Do we dare risk it?" she murmured in an undertone.

He scanned the surroundings. "No sign of Bianka. Henry's not in town. Let's scram."

"If we duck through Barnard College to Riverside Drive, Alicia and Matthew should be free from Peeping Toms."

They were simply two friends walking home together till they reached Riverside Park. The moon was bright in the sky, providing ideal conditions for a romantic stroll.

"I wish you weren't taking Bianka to the festival," Sara said as he slipped an arm around her waist.

"I do too. I wouldn't have invited her, but she asked me."

Neal had taken Bianka out the previous evening. They'd gone to a romantic French restaurant. Afterward, she'd invited him to her apartment. Whenever Neal went out on a date with Bianka he wore an FBI-issue watch. One of the buttons on the side sent a direct signal to the techs in the lab, who then relayed it to whoever his designated save was. This time it was Jones who'd called, supposedly needing Neal for a surveillance assignment.

Bianka was growing more amorous each day. Neal's challenge to act infatuated without crossing the Rubicon was becoming increasingly difficult. Luckily for him, Bianka had been afflicted by one illness after another. She was Hungarian. Perhaps she had no resistance to New York bugs. And not just bugs. A couple of weeks ago, she'd been the victim of a mugging which landed her in the hospital.

For a criminal agent who was supposed to be seducing him, Bianka was having miserable luck and he was grateful. He also found it hard not to feel sorry for her. She claimed to be twenty-three but she seemed younger. Neal wondered if he was her first mark. He hoped she decided her illnesses were an omen to choose another career path.

He and Sara stopped to sit on a bench and gaze over the river. He should tell her about the test results—the reason why he wouldn't go into battle with the larpers—but there'd be plenty of time later. For now they let their mouths do the talking, not to express words but their emotions.

_Aar-ooooooooooh!_

Sara pulled back. "What was that? A wolf?"

"In New York City?" Neal shook his head. "I've only heard wolves howl in the movies, but this didn't sound like one. It was more . . . strident."

"It's not a coyote. I'm familiar with their yips and yowls. What else could it be?"

They listened intently for several minutes. The howl had been faint. Impossible to tell which direction it came from.

They weren't the only ones who heard it. Others in the park were also commenting on the strange noise.

Neal and Sara resumed their walk. Lingering in the park no longer seemed like a good idea. When they crossed Riverside Drive to head towards Sara's apartment, once more they heard a distant cry.

_Aar-ooooooooooh!_

 

* * *

_Notes: Thanks for reading and hugs to all of you who comment or leave kudos! Night Howls on the Hudson has 9 chapters. I plan to post weekly on Wednesday. Next week in Chapter 2: Cat and Mouse, Neal has that postponed conversation with Peter about Christie's findings, and Crowley drops in on Maia with disturbing news about Electra._

_A little history: In 1624 the Lenape people of Manahatta sold their island to the Dutch for 60 guilders worth of trade goods. Inwood Hill Park is at the northern tip of Manhattan. The forested park does have caves used by the Lenape. The marsh also exists and is next to the Baker Athletics Complex which Columbia built in 2016. I've taken liberty with the dates and details of the construction. During the actual construction, no Lenape pottery fragments were found at the site. As for the marsh, I'll have more about it at the end of the story._

_Harriet Beaufort, the author of the book Chloe is interested in, is a historical character, but the herbal guide is fictitious._

_The Medieval Festival in New York City is going strong. This year the 34th festival will be held on Saturday, September 30. So far Columbia hasn't held a Renaissance Festival on the following day._

_Special thanks to Penna Nomen for providing beta assistance during this adventure. The characters and I are very grateful!_

_Series Background: In the pre-series Caffrey Conversation AU created by Penna Nomen, FBI Special Agent Peter Burke recruited con artist and expert forger Neal Caffrey in 2003 when he was 24. In exchange for a confession, he was given immunity for past crimes and started working for the FBI as a consultant at the White Collar task force in New York City. Sam and Dean Winchester are demon-hunting brothers. Sam is roughly the same age as Neal. Dean is four years older than Sam. Peter is fifteen years older than Neal. For those familiar with the Supernatural timeline, the action is set early in the second season of Supernatural. The[Crossed Lines page](https://pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com/p/crossed-lines.html) on our blog has more background information about the stories._

_Blog: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation: [www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com](http://www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com)_  
_Chapter Visuals and Music: The Night Howls on the Hudson board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website:[www.pinterest.com/caffreycon](http://www.pinterest.com/caffreycon)_  
_Pins are updated with each new chapter. This week's pins include the cast and locations as well as the Goya painting which inspired Neal's tribute to the Marquesa._

_Disclaimers: The worlds of White Collar and Supernatural are not mine, alas. Any depictions of real institutions and locations are not necessarily true or accurate. In particular, the details of Columbia's involvement with the marsh near their boathouse are fictitious._


	2. Cat and Mouse

**Federal Building. Monday, September 19, 2005.**

Neal had made a tradition of stopping at the breakroom first thing on Monday morning. His objective wasn't the muddy swill the ancient coffee maker brewed, but something much more refined—the gossip from the previous weekend. Today did not disappoint.

Jones and Travis were discussing Sunday's festival rehearsal when he arrived.

"You like playing strategy games," Travis pointed out, bravely filling his mug with the turbid brew. "You're a natural for larping."

Jones didn't appear convinced as he ripped open a bag of sweetener. "Not at the crack of dawn I'm not. All my gaming's late at night. Besides, next Saturday Helen and I are going to a play. Come Sunday, I'll want to sleep in."

_With someone beside you?_ Neal didn't blame him. 

"Bring her along. She'll love it. All women love to wear costumes," asserted Travis confidently then turned to Neal. "Don't they?"

"I haven't met any who don't." Travis might not be a font of knowledge on women but on this occasion he was onto something. Last autumn, when team members ran a sting at a gaming convention, Tricia and Diana had been among the most enthusiastic participants. Tricia was no longer at White Collar since she'd moved to the Behavior Analysis Unit, but the last time Neal visited her office, he noticed she'd framed the photo of herself as Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons, and had it proudly displayed in her bookcase. A real shame Peter hadn't done the same with his Julius Caesar photo.

Neal estimated the odds of Travis being able to convince Jones weren't in his favor, but Travis showed admirable persistence. When he switched tactics and mentioned how impressed Helen would be to see her boyfriend outfitted as a warrior, Neal sensed a wavering in Jones's stance.

At that key moment, Diana passed by and beckoned Neal over with a gesture. "How are we wasting time today?" she murmured.

When Neal explained, she promptly joined in.

"You should come," she declared. "I'll be there. It's up to us to knock some Bureau discipline into those college kids. Janet's arranged for a bargain package rate with a costume supplier. Consider it a Bureau recruitment effort." She launched into a vivid and undoubtedly highly exaggerated description of the upcoming battle.

"Okay, sign me up," Jones agreed at last, waving a hand in defeat. "How about Peter? Have you convinced him as well?"

Travis grimaced. "I've been working on him, but he's a hard sell. Most of the kids at the workshop plan to attend the festival with their parents and have been asking him what part he'll play. I detected a slight chink in his armor, but it may not be enough."

Peter, along with Travis and Mozzie, volunteered at a series of telescope classes that the university offered for children. Peter shouldn't be so hard-headed, but there was an obvious reason why.

"He'll be there," Diana predicted. "Last Tuesday after the Arkham Round Table session, I talked with Elizabeth about the festival. She mentioned wanting to attend. A couple of well-placed words and the boss's defenses will crumble."

"Careful," Neal said under his breath. "Your mark's heading this way."

"Is the morning briefing being conducted in the breakroom?" Peter asked, his hands on his hips. "What news bulletin did I miss out on?"

"Identification fraud," Diana said brazenly. "Jones and I were previewing our comments. Criminal chicanery, fraud, deception—we're on it, day and night."

"I've been urging them to plan an undercover op," Neal added, stoking the fire. "Masking their identities to explore the realm of the criminal."

Peter flicked them a wary glance, but let it pass. Neal was glad to see Travis didn't bring up the festival. With El on board, there was no need. Peter might not realize it, but he was already signed up.

Meanwhile Diana was true to her word. When the team met in the upstairs conference room, she and Jones spent most of the briefing discussing the upswing in identity fraud cases in the metropolitan area.

"We suspect a coordinated operation," Jones said. "Perhaps a hacker cell set up somewhere in the city."

"Have you discussed it with Aidan?" Peter asked. When Aidan wasn't larping, fencing, or working on his master's in visual arts, he worked as a programmer for a small cybersecurity firm. He'd already consulted with White Collar on a number of cases and had become their go-to contact when they needed cybersecurity expertise.

"I suggested Jones come to Columbia with me on Tuesday after work," Travis said. "Aidan's office is close to the campus. We can meet with him before the SETI meeting starts."

"I plan to go along, Boss," Diana added. "The LARP committee is holding a planning session that evening. Did you hear that Jones will be larping? This will be Jones's first time to attend a meeting. New recruits are welcome at any time."

Peter cast them a suspicious look, and for a completely unjustified reason included Neal in his hawk-eyed scrutiny. For once, Neal's innocent rejoinder was completely justified.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

At the conclusion of the meeting, Neal followed Peter to his office. He'd postponed the news long enough.

"If you're coming to recruit me for the festival," Peter said, closing his office door behind them, "I'm warning you upfront, you're outta luck. I will _not_ wear some silly costume."

"I had nothing to do with their comments," Neal protested. "You've made your irrational beliefs crystal-clear."

"A likely story. Your fingerprints are all over this. Still, the thought of charging into battle with you does have a certain appeal. Which side will you be on?"

"I'm with the royalists, but"—Neal hesitated. Now was as good a time as any—"I won't be fighting. Doctor's orders. After beating a drum with the other minstrels to send the troops off to battle, I'll watch from the sidelines."

Damn. Peter's expression had immediately turned somber. This was what Neal dreaded. That look of sympathy. Knowing he'd be doing the same if the roles were reversed didn't help.

"You heard back from Christie?"

"Yeah. Apparently there's a problem with my white blood cells. There's a variety called eosinophils which appear to be going berserk. Their numbers are much higher than they should be, which indicates something's not right. Like maybe a goddess in my dreams." Neal explained the episode with the Marquesa on Saturday night.

Peter's frown deepened to encompass his entire face. "What does Christie say?"

"If I weren't displaying curse symptoms, she'd call it hypereosinophilic syndrome."

He grimaced. "That's a mouthful. You better write it down for me. Is it as bad as it sounds?"

"Just about," Neal admitted, picking up a pen from Peter's desk and jotting the term on a notepad. "Christie checked the medical records of the Connecticut artist Scott Pembroke. He had the same anomaly although it's unclear if it was the cause of death."

"Is the condition treatable?"

"Sometimes." Neal weighed his words carefully. "In Scott's case, the doctors tried the various recommended drug therapies and none of them worked."

Peter took a slow breath. "What are the symptoms of the syndrome? Include the worst case scenario."

"Weight loss, fatigue, fever, confusion, coma. Major organ failure is the worst. Christie said Scott's heart was compromised, a condition which could be attributable to the syndrome. Once Scott developed symptoms, he lasted for months. Mine have only just started. There's still plenty of time. Between Chloe, Peony, and Christie, I'm confident they'll find something."

"Right." Peter fell quiet. He wasn't the type to pace, but he stood up to stare out the window. Neal knew he wasn't focusing on the nearby skyscrapers. He looked the way Neal had felt when Christie gave him the news.

"I spoke with Sam. He and Dean are coming to town."

"How's Sam?"

"He's not getting up in the middle of night to paint—in fact he doesn't remember anything about his dreams—but he wakes up exhausted. Christie's offered to examine him. On the good news front—"

"Man, could we use some of that," Peter said, forcing a smile.

"And I have it in spades," Neal confirmed, trying to keep the conversation upbeat. "The book Chloe was looking for has arrived. You should have been present at the festival rehearsal last night. Hearing her chat with Christie about potions and the efficacy of botanical extracts makes a cure sound within her grasp."

"Chloe and Christie, the double threat." His smile was more genuine. "Your cases may lead to a new branch of medicine. What other restrictions has Christie placed on you?"

"Not any, really. I can still fence, run. She's leaving it up to me. If I have the energy, I can continue my normal activities." Neal didn't feel it necessary to mention Christie had limited the amount of fencing he could do.

Peter returned to his desk and sat down. "You should postpone dating Bianka. It's too risky."

"I'll be at greater risk if we stop," Neal objected. "I'm _not_ an invalid, and I'm _not_ at the point of collapse. Christie nixed the combat out of an abundance of caution, but she didn't say anything about flirting. Let me concentrate on my job. It will all work out." Okay, maybe he was being a tad overly optimistic, but Neal needed Peter to be positive.

The plain truth was that Neal's situation was precarious no matter what they decided. Ydrus had several weapons at their disposal. If he stopped seeing Bianka, they might decide to abduct him instead. Peter knew that.

Peter studied Neal for a moment, his lips tightening, then exhaled. "Mononucleosis, that's what you have."

"No, I don't. Christie already tested me."

"Bianka doesn't know that. I had it in college. I remember all too well how sick I was. That will at least keep you from having to be physical with her. You can show off your con artistry. Act heartbroken at not being able to"—Peter stumbled—"you know."

"Have sex with her?" Neal supplied helpfully.

"Exactly. You haven't, have you?"

"Relax. We haven't done the dirty. Between all the illnesses she's come down with and getting over the mugging, I haven't needed to use my emergency rescues very often. Mono's a good idea, though. Bianka's been so sick that it would be natural for me to be solicitous. I had a mild case when I was a teenager. I can fake the symptoms."

"Do it," Peter ordered. He looked relieved at the thought and Neal was happy to go along.

"I'll hold off for now, but keep it in reserve. How's that?"

"Acceptable." Peter pressed the palms of his hands on the desk and stretched his arms. "All right. We'll continue the battle against the Mansfelds. Unlike Shrewsbury, this is a battle of wits, and I like our odds. You were supposed to prepare that forgery of the Renoir. I bet you haven't had a chance to start it."

"Not yet," Neal admitted. "Renoir will be a pleasant change after Goya."

"Good. Focus on that. Remember our agreement. This is an FBI-sanctioned project. You're to adjust your hours at the office accordingly. If you paint two hours in the evening, you'll reduce the amount of time at the office. Understood?"

"Got it."

"You're on the honor system. I trust you to live up to our agreement . . . and keep me informed of any updates on your situation. Does Henry know?"

"Not yet. He'll return from Asia in a couple of weeks. There's no need to tell him now."

Peter frowned but didn't argue the point. He couldn't escape the logic of Neal's argument. All Henry could do was worry, and there was already enough of that.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

When Neal left Peter's office, he headed to his art niche in the lab. On the way he spotted Tricia waiting for an elevator. Tricia used to be Peter's second-in-command. She now worked as a profiler and was advising them on the Mansfelds.

"Were you here to see Diana?" Neal asked. Tricia met with her regularly to ensure the plots for Arkham Files adhered to the strategy she'd conceived. The Lovecraft-inspired fanfics were designed to influence Klaus and Rolf's behavior.

She nodded. "Peter wants the first chapter to be posted next week. Mozzie sent Diana a stack of rewrites this morning and she made an emergency call to me about them."

"What's he want now?"

"Apparently the discovery of Native American pottery at the sports complex site has sparked a resonant chord. Diana hasn't decided how much to include."

"She may change his ideas so much, they'll be unrecognizable. Happens to my suggestions _all_ the time."

Tricia smiled in sympathy. "Did you know Mozzie called Mitch about the artifacts?"

"I'm not surprised." Since Tricia's husband was a professor of anthropology, Mozzie must have counted on a receptive audience.

"Mitch talked with the Columbia team who researched the site. They're confident they found all the artifacts. There aren't many—only a few potshards. But Mitch told me they're quite valuable. They've been dated to the thirteenth century."

"There were Native American settlements on the island that far back?"

"Even further. The Manhattan tribe was a branch of the Lenape people, the indigenous inhabitants of the northeastern states. Archaeological sites have been found going back ten thousand years. Columbia intends to build a display and incorporate it into the center."

"But they won't stop construction."

"I'm afraid this evidence won't be enough. I sympathize with the marsh supporters. The wetlands has excellent habitat for waterfowl. It's a shame to lose it." She winced. "I'm afraid Mitch may have given Mozzie the wrong idea."

Neal braced himself. Mitch didn't know Mozzie well. The only time they'd met as far as Neal knew was at one of the Arkham Files parties. Had she warned him about some of Mozzie's more interesting theories?

"Mitch joked that the Wiccans might have to rely on a wrathful spirit to stop the project. The Lenape have a rich mythology of gods and elemental spirits."

Neal groaned. "I can see it now. Mozzie will lead the Wiccans in prayer. They're already planning to hold a ritual for the autumnal equinox."

"He told me Mozzie mentioned it."

"This can't end well," Neal predicted gloomily.

"Not necessarily. Many of the spirits were benevolent. Columbia could use a protective spirit around now. Did you hear about the missing student?"

"I saw the news reports." The previous evening an undergrad had failed to appear at his dorm. The last time anyone had seen him was in the computer science lab that afternoon.

"I'm meeting with the police later today about it," Tricia said. "They're collecting statements of students and want me to review them. Did you happen to see anything?"

"No, and I was on campus around that time. Unless . . ." Should he mention it? It was hard to see how it could possibly be relevant.

"What is it?" she asked.

"When I walked home Sunday evening, I heard faint howls in Riverside Park. Probably just a fraternity prank."

"Not wolves?" Her smile indicated she didn't seriously think wolves were on the loose in New York City.

"Or werewolves?" He chuckled. "There wasn't a full moon. I'm placing my money on the human variety."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Crowley coalesced in the living room of Maia's small cottage in New Haven. He'd flipped a coin, and the mouse won. A cottage for a mousekin. The place suited her, if not particularly her heartthrob, Sam. No sign of Maia in the front rooms but faint thumps coming from the bedroom invited speculation. Had he caught her with the moose?

Maia had scattered soft wool rugs on her hardwood floors. Crowley could sneak up without anyone hearing. He peered around the corner to see her trying to close a zipper on a suitcase lying on the bed. Her long blonde hair was tied back into a pony tail. One strand had escaped and dangled in front of her eyes. Her attempts to blow it off her face were futile. Her puppy Tatyana was standing on the bed with head cocked as if trying to figure out how she could join in the game.

In jeans, barefoot, with an oversized flannel man's shirt big enough to be Sam's, Maia hardly looked like the demigoddess she supposedly was.

Crowley was shocked to feel an avuncular smile spread over his face. Was he growing soft? Ever since he and Maia had made their mutual defense pact, he found himself in the odd situation of feeling like she was his favorite niece. Really quite perplexing since he'd once been attracted to her in a distinctly non-avuncular way. But that was before he'd hitched his star to Electra. Was it he who'd changed or Maia? He used to view her as the cat who liked to toy with her victims as if they were mice. Now she'd become a mouse herself. And Electra was the cat who would ensnare them all if they weren't careful.

Maia had approached him to help safeguard her precious Sam. That was bad enough but she'd also embraced Chloe as her new best friend forever, which meant Chloe and Sam's brother needed to be protected as well. In a convoluted logic understood only to herself, Maia seemed to think Cheekbones Caffrey and his boss Dick Tracy Burke belonged in her orbit of protection. It was enough to give any demon a migraine.

But since Maia offered to help him with Electra, Crowley was willing to go along—when it suited him. It was time for her to repay him for the assistance he'd provided.

Crowley stepped into the room. "Need some help?"

"Please! I should have bought a bigger suitcase, but this one was on sale and lavender's my favorite color."

Did Electra keep her on a limited stipend? He filed that tidbit away for future reflection and obligingly squashed the suitcase flat with a flick of his hand. "Where are you going? Two-month safari to Africa?"

"Not quite. A week to New York. The rare book room at Columbia University has some manuscripts I want to consult for my thesis."

"And?"

She removed the clasp holding her pony tail and corralled the errant strand. "Chloe's coven is celebrating Mabon. I told her I'd help."

"And?"

Her face lit up with a mischievous smile, making her look even more like a teenager. "And Sam's coming to town. Chloe says he'll be there at least a week. Next weekend there's a Renaissance festival. I've never attended one."

He crossed his arms. "Not to put too fine a point on it, but since you experienced the era first hand, that must count. Didn't Electra mention something about you having a thing for Christopher Marlowe?"

She wrinkled her nose at him. "Let's keep that our secret." She glanced at her watch." My train doesn't leave for a few hours. Would you like some tea?"

"Surely you jest. Where's your Scotch?"

"Sorry, I don't have any. There may be some beer leftover from Sam's last visit. I'm drinking Irish Breakfast tea. It's quite good. Are you sure you don't want any?"

_When in Rome or a mouse's cottage_. "Add plenty of milk. You don't happen to have any biscuits?"

"Scottish shortbread. I'll be right back."

Crowley sighed resignedly. So much for being King of Hell, a crossroads demon, and tormentor of more humans and demons than he could remember. If word got out he was sitting down for tea and biscuits—in a rocking chair, no less—his reputation would be shot.

He glared at Tatyana and ordered sternly, "No blabbing to your pals."

She raised her ears and whined a response. The next thing he knew she leaped off the bed and nudged his legs to be petted. This was bad. Not even a puppy was afraid of him.

As Crowley sat and rocked, and yes, petted the pooch, he scanned Maia's room inquisitively. A mug of tea was on the nightstand. Not a sign of blood anywhere. Had Electra sucked out all the evil in Maia to feed her own insatiable desire? For, just as Maia appeared to be rejecting her dark ways, Electra had gone nuclear.

"Not that I don't appreciate the help, but was there a reason you dropped in?" Maia asked when she returned with the tea and plate of biscuits.

"It's your sister," Crowley confessed. "She baffles me."

He'd never worked for a Greek goddess before. Up to now, the most powerful beings he'd associated with were a few archangels who were too big for their wings in his not-so-humble opinion. Electra fascinated and befuddled him as no woman had in centuries. Maia was his best chance of getting a handle on her.

Maia sat cross-legged on the bed and looked at him worriedly. "What's she done now?"

"I'd been acting on the assumption she'd agreed to the Crowley Doctrine. You were there at the time. We were in her bedroom. She appeared to be paying attention."

Maia nodded. "You and she agreed to keep a low profile by eliminating the vampires who were not up to your standards. You planned to enhance her public front as a benefactor to cultural groups through her foundation while deepening your penetration of the identity fraud market. I thought you were making progress on both fronts."

Crowley noted her use of _you_ rather than _we_. Just how much had Maia separated herself from her sister's activities? He hardly ever saw her at Electra's house anymore. And he should know. Now that Electra had finally agreed to partake of his considerable physical delights, he was there for extended periods. He'd at first considered that Maia was staying away to give them privacy. But was there something more to it? This would require careful study.

"I thought so as well," he agreed, preferring for the moment not to comment on her change in attitude. "But Electra's grown reckless and demanding—"

"—She's always been demanding," Maia muttered.

"It's gotten worse. She's . . ." Crowley took a breath. It pained him to admit it. Preferring a paintbrush-pusher over him? "She's obsessing more than ever over that twit Cheekbones. One moment she curses him for being a mere copyist. The next she moons over him like a love-struck teenager. Her behavior's unseemly, and it's poisoning her decisions. If she'd just make up her mind, I could deal with it. When she wanted to eliminate the competition, I understood and supported it. A highly commendable action. Staging a mugging of his girlfriend Bianka was simplicity itself. The fang siphoned off enough of her blood so Electra could establish her link. Now she can torment her victim whenever she wishes."

Maia frowned. "When did this happen?"

"A couple of weeks ago. That appeared to satisfy her, or so I thought." He paused to chuckle. "My spies tell me Bianka's come down with one bout of the flu after another."

Maia wrinkled her delicate brow even more. "You have vampires on the Columbia campus?"

"Only a couple. Very discreet, of course. Columbia's one of the prime recruiting sites for our new breed of hacker-fangs. Didn't Electra tell you?"

"She doesn't tell me much of anything," she admitted, fingering her tea mug absently.

"The worst is having Electra call out Cheekbone's name when we're bonking. Frankly, it's insulting. What I don't get is if she's so hot for the smudge, why does she torture him?"

Maia gave him a sharp look. "She's been feeding off him?"

"Gorging herself is more like it. From what she tells me, these are no gentle love nibbles. I know that's what both of you do, but I thought your aim wasn't to kill the bloke right away. At the rate Electra's going, Cheekbones won't last the year."

She winced. "It's complicated, and to set the record straight, I am _not_ feeding off Sam." She looked at him accusingly. "You were supposed to help me protect Sam's friends."

"Any ideas on how I can keep Astrena, Queen of the Stars, from feeding off whoever she bloody wants to?"

Maia had no answer, but she was looking more distressed by the moment. What was he missing? Wasn't feeding off others the sisters' goal? "You've got to toss me a bone or two. We agreed to help each other but I'm flying blind until I know what makes Electra tick."

Maia exhaled and didn't say anything for a moment, twisting the tail of her flannel shirt into a tight knot. When she finally spoke, her voice was pitched so low, he had to strain to hear her. "Electra told me that in the beginning, she acted as a muse and nothing more. She visited the minds of her chosen ones to inspire them, but she didn't feed on them."

"What changed?"

Maia shrugged. "She did. Her father Erebus gave her great power, and Electra amplified it through spells and potions."

Crowley was glad he'd read up on his mythology. He knew Papa Erebus. The personification of darkness. Of course, there were others who challenged that title. Was Papa Erebus still around? Could Crowley forge an alliance with Erebus? Present himself as a future son-in-law? Someone who would watch over his darling soul-sucker of a daughter?

"Electra created the first witches. In the beginning they used their abilities only to help others. But at some point Electra became bored. Being a muse can be awfully passive," Maia added a little defensively. "One thing led to another. She began feeding off the life force of her protégés. Later she developed a taste for blood and created vampires."

"Did you know her then?"

"No. By the time she elevated me, her abilities had already matured." Maia patted the comforter for Tatyana to flop next to her. "Ever since the persecution of witches began in the sixteenth century, Electra's power has been waning. Like all gods, she derives her strength from being worshipped, and as her followers dropped, her power did as well. Now, with the rise of Wicca, she's regaining her strength. Many Wiccans worship the Triple Goddess—some call her the White Goddess. Astrena's found a way to redirect the energy created from their prayers to her instead."

"Is there a White Goddess somewhere?"

Maia shrugged. "I've never met her."

"And how do you fit in, little mouse? Is Erebus also your daddy?"

"How sick is Neal?" Maia asked, not answering his question. Had he struck a nerve? Just who was she?

"How should I know? I can't exactly call him up. He knew my meatsuit, Hagen. It wouldn't be wise to raise his suspicions or those of his boss. Electra told me you'd sampled Neal's blood, too. Can't you tell?"

"Don't remind me," she muttered, looking genuinely nauseous. "In any case, we can't read their thoughts. We can only project our own, and I've never visited him." She looked at him with big, scared eyes. "Do you know if Electra is sending Scarbo to Neal?"

"That nasty little imp who hides behind the curtains in her bedroom? She never mentions him to me. How does he fit into her plans?"

She sank her hand into Tatyana's fur. "Electra sends Scarbo to punish her victims if they don't perform to her satisfaction. If Neal hasn't seen him yet, he likely soon will. I've seen Electra obsess over someone before. Mozart rebelled. He didn't last long."

Did Cheekbones have any idea of what was going on? He was friends with the Winchesters. It was possible they realized supernatural forces were at work. Up to now Crowley had managed to keep his operations clear from hunter interference. Dean had seen him at the castle of Electra's bratty pure-blood in West Virginia, but there was no way he could have learned about Crowley's connection to Electra.

New York City had initially appeared to be an ideal location. He knew the city well. Electra had designs on the art scene, and there was a rich supply of creative types for her to select from. Crowley had set up Electra's pure-blood prince Jeremy with a rock club in the Village called Riffs. The establishment was also a front for Crowley's identity fraud operation, ably managed by his lieutenant Drasko. The initial results were promising. The club quickly became a magnet for the music and arts crowd. Drasko had been having success in recruiting top-grade hackers from the local universities. Lately, however, there were troubling signs which bore watching.

Hunters didn't normally spend much time in large urban centers, but the Winchesters had been spotted at Riffs. Crowley's initial heartburn was somewhat mitigated when he realized their presence had a silver lining. The brothers apparently were unaware of who Jeremy was, and the club's surveillance cameras could be used to monitor them. Jeremy was also able to spy on Cheekbones who performed there regularly.

The fly in Crowley's lucrative ointment was a man with an uncanny resemblance to Dean. Jeremy discovered that this new plague on their lives was Henry Winslow. When Jeremy found out Henry was Cheekbones's cousin, the pieces began to fall into place. There had to be a blood relationship for Henry and Dean to look so much alike, and it explained why Cheekbones was so tight with a pair of hunters. Was Henry also a hunter? Something else even more nefarious?

"Has Electra said anything about Sam?" Maia asked, breaking into his thoughts.

"No, why?"

She didn't say anything, but began kneading Tatyana's fur.

"You're afraid she's going after him, too?" Crowley prompted.

She nodded worriedly. "You'll let me know if you hear anything?"

"Of course." If Electra killed Sam, Dean would never rest till he'd destroyed her and anyone serving her. He'd likely go ballistic over Cheekbones's demise, too, if they were related. Crowley had zero desire to go to war against Dean Winchester and his fellow hunters, but he could only advise Electra. Maia, on the other hand . . . Did she have the ability to thwart her? 

In his view, the odds were remote. A mouse taking on Astrena, Queen of the Stars? Not bloody likely. She was probably more concerned about being caught in the crossfire of Electra's wrath. The mouse appeared to be renouncing everything that made her a handmaiden of Electra. She was no longer drinking blood, she wasn't feeding off Sam. What was going through her pretty little head? She better be careful if she didn't want to lose it.

Crowley snapped his fingers. Maia might opt for a train, but no pedestrian modes of transportation for him. It was time to pay a visit to Electra and he'd do it in style.

He arrived seconds later in her office at the Elysian Bookstore. Electra was sitting at her desk in front of her computer, her blonde hair coiled into a tight chignon at her neck.

"You're just the one I wanted to see," she said with a slight nod, looking pleased.

This was a pleasant change. When was the last time anyone had said that about him? He gave a low bow.

"I'm going to New York and I want you there as well."

"Of course, your radiance." Interesting. Maia hadn't said anything about Electra being there. Did the mouse know?

"Wisteria told me her sister Peony's coven is holding a Mabon festival on Thursday in New York City," she said. "It will be a small ceremony but the coven is attracting some Columbia students. I'd like to encourage the trend on college campuses and have decided to attend."

Wisteria Brigham was the head of the New Haven Wicca coven. Electra had made a devoted friend out of her by allowing her coven to meet in the bookstore. Wisteria regularly supplied her with pies from her inn. Crowley's favorite was raisin pie. It reminded him of Scottish fruit slices. Wisteria's look was priceless when he praised her for her fly cemetery. Much as he enjoyed the joke, he relented to explain the origin of the name. It wouldn't do for her to stop making them and she laughingly agreed that the filling did resemble a mass of flies. Even offered to try her hand at sticky toffee pudding. Crowley was enjoying his new life immensely. Had Maia supplied him with enough ammunition to keep Electra from ruining it?

"I'll be glad to assist in any way," he murmured, swinging into a blue leather side chair. The closer he kept to her, the easier he could spy on her activities and dissuade her from provocative moves.

"Good. The following weekend Peony's coven will participate in Medieval and Renaissance festivals. They'll staff a booth on witches, focusing on the benefits they provided during those more enlightened times. The Elysian Bookstore should also have a presence. My staff can easily manage the bookstore in my absence. This will give me an opportunity to check on Jeremy at Riffs."

That was welcome news. Focus on business. Jeremy was the role-model of what the pure-blood vampire prince should be. Sharp business sense, cold, and calculating.

"I haven't received any recent reports on Neal," she said, her elegantly chiseled features twisted into a frown. "He's taken at least two women to Riffs. Bianka I know about, but the identity of the other is so far unknown."

Bollocks. Again with Cheekbones. Crowley sighed, wishing he'd had Scotch instead of tea. "You haven't been to New York in almost two months. Do you expect him to be a monk in your absence?"

She glared at him. "Of course I do. His thoughts should only be about me and his art. He'll have his final chance this week. If he doesn't mend his ways . . ." She shrugged. "I want you with me. We need to exploit the Columbia connection even more."

"We're already recruiting there," he protested.

"Not that way," she said impatiently. "Through my foundation. I intend to become one of Columbia's major benefactors."

The deans at Columbia would have second thoughts, if they saw the evil smile she gave. As for him, it simply served to make him hornier. He was determined to become indispensable to Astrena and channel her power into something much more lucrative than destroying a bunch of paint pushers.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

When Peter arrived home that evening, he found El in the kitchen making dinner. He breathed in the delicious aroma of meatloaf.  Somehow she knew he'd need comfort food tonight.

"How was your day?" she asked, giving him a kiss.

He enveloped her in a hug and held her close for a moment. "I've had better."

She raised a brow. "Is it something you can talk about?"

He went to the refrigerator and pulled out a beer. "We need to. Would you like a glass of wine?"

"Please. The salad can wait."

She took a seat on one of the bar stools around the butcher block table, and he joined her. El already knew about Astrena, but hearing about Christie's diagnosis was as difficult for her to hear as it had been for him.

"I thought I'd come to terms with it," he admitted, "but today I realized I'd still been in denial. Despite the evidence, on a subconscious level I continued to feel we were the victims of a cruel prank."

"I know what you mean. This is the twenty-first century, not ancient Greece. And now I find myself desperately wanting to believe in the curse. That's something Chloe may be able to fix. This syndrome . . ." Shaking her head, she didn't finish her thought.

"I researched the disease after Neal left the office. Finding the appropriate treatment is difficult. There are many different strains, and each case appears to be different. So far, none of Neal's organs have been affected, but Christie is monitoring him closely. She's made an appointment for him to see a hematologist later this week."

"I'm glad Sam will be in New York. It must not be easy for him and Dean to find doctors they trust. Sam needs to see Christie, too." She brushed a strand of hair off her face. "I was all set to persuade you to go to the Renaissance festival next Sunday, but this puts a different spin on it."

"We should go," he said firmly. "This morning the team urged me to participate in the LARP."

She eyed him skeptically. "And you knew what they meant?"

"I do now."

She bit her lip. "Will Neal be able to . . .?"

Peter shook his head. "No. He told me Christie's put the kibosh on any larping. I know how it galls him. A chance to wear costumes, engage in mock battles—any kid's dream."

"If they hold the festival next year, perhaps he can then." El's words trailed off. It wasn't easy to be optimistic about what the future would be like.

Neal's teasing face flashed in front of his eyes. It only took Peter a moment to make up his mind. "Hon, do you think Janet could scrounge me a suitable costume?"

Her face lit up. "Are you going to be Neal's stand in?"

"Sure. You and he can watch and snap all the photos you want. We'll make this a battle to remember."

 

* * *

_Notes: I'm not a doctor and not an expert on hypereosinophilic syndrome. Please excuse any inaccuracies._

_I invented Astrena, but Erebus is an immortal from Greek mythology. He's one of the primordial deities. I'll have more about Astrena's family tree in a later chapter. Family ties in the form of the clan are also important for Maia. As for Neal, the man Peter used to caution about his lone wolf tendencies, his wolf pack becomes increasingly important now that Astrena is tightening her hold on him.[The Wolf Pack](https://pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com/2018/10/the-wolf-pack.html) is the title of this week's blog post._

_Next week, Dean discovers an unsettling truth about Chloe while Peter, the alpha of Neal's wolf pack, has cause for additional concern._

_Blog: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation: _ [ _www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com_ ](http://www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com) _  
Chapter Visuals and Music: The Night Howls on the Hudson board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website:_ [ _www.pinterest.com/caffreycon_ ](http://www.pinterest.com/caffreycon)


	3. In the Pink

**New York City. Monday, September 19, 2005.**

Dean and Sam arrived at Peony's B&B shortly after Chloe returned home from work. When Sam saw how Dean's face lit up at the sight of her, he breathed easier. Chloe was just what Dean needed—a distraction from worrying about him.

For the past six weeks, Chloe had been on a contract assignment with a publishing house. Life in the Big Apple hadn't appeared to change her. No heels and silk suits for her. She still had bangs and wore her long auburn hair loose. With her boots and tight pants, she could easily pass herself off as a hunter.

Maia had adopted the same style but she gave it a softer touch. Maia . . . Sam let his mind rest on that pleasant thought for a while. He'd be seeing her in a few hours.

Much as he wished she'd already arrived, it was for the best. They'd have a chance to discuss Chloe's book without her hearing about it. Sam was shielding Maia from his hunter activities. He'd led her to believe that he and Dean were freelance investigators who occasionally consulted with the FBI. That was true as far as it went. Sam hoped she'd never have to know about the monsters and demons he and Dean faced, and he'd warned Chloe not to mention them to her.

When they entered the inn, Peony rushed forward to greet them with a bright smile as if they were her long-lost nephews. The gray pleated skirt and wool cardigan she wore over her pink blouse evoked her British roots. Stepping into her B&B made Sam feel like he'd entered Miss Marple's home.

The thought made him smile. If he hadn't tricked Dean into thinking Miss Marple was a sex worker, his brother never would have watched the movie _At Bertram's Hotel_ with him. Dean's reaction when he discovered the hotel was filled with elderly guests and Miss Marple was a gentle white-haired spinster was worth the inevitable revenge prank. As a bonus, Dean was now acquainted with lace arm covers, doilies, and hand-knitted tea cozies.

Peony didn't solve mysteries like Miss Marple, but Sam had learned her talents were not to be underestimated. Peony was an authentic psychic. The herbal infusions she made in her silver cauldron allowed her to connect with the spirit world in ways Sam wouldn't have believed if he hadn't been a witness.

It was Peony who'd detected the psychic bond which connected him and Neal to the goddess Astrena. Chloe was now studying herbs and potions with her. Chloe's concoctions had already proved useful. She'd prepared an oil which kept vampires from being able to sniff them. Now they were pinning their hopes on her and Peony finding a way to sever the link.

The book had arrived at Bobby's place in New Jersey midday. Chloe was as excited as a kid at Christmas to see it, and Sam was right with her.

"You don't mind if I join you for the unveiling?" Peony asked hopefully.

"Of course not," Chloe said. "I may need your help. You're much more familiar with English herbs than I am."

Peony led them to a small sitting room papered in a green floral design with roses. Sam had quickly learned on their previous visit that Peony was into pink. Most of the time her clothes included something in that color. Her china had pink flowers on it. The guest rooms had pink towels and floral wallpaper. Peony herself seemed to be in a permanent rosy glow.

They sat around the round oak table Peony used for her séances.

Dean placed the package on the table and handed his pocket knife to Chloe. "To you go the honors."

Within the outer shipping package was a black box. Dean eyed it warily. "Wasn't there something about a black box and quantum theory?"

Chloe looked at him startled. "When did you get interested in physics?"

"It was mentioned in a Scooby-Doo cartoon he watched on Saturday," Sam explained helpfully.

Dean glared at him. "That's just cruel."

"Well, you don't have to worry about any cats inside," Chloe teased. "This is an archival storage box. I'm glad Finnerty took such good care of the book. It's two hundred years old and probably in fragile condition."

Peony pulled out a sparkling white damask tablecloth from a drawer in the bookcase. "We should protect it from any random emanations." Directing Chloe to lift up the box, she spread the cloth on the table.

Dean tossed Sam a shrug. He probably thought it was a lot of bother. He and Sam carried their dad's journal everywhere. It had bloodstains, grease marks, ectoplasm smears . . . A little late to think about protecting it, but maybe they should be more careful.

Chloe raised the lid of the box and lifted out the book. When he caught a glimpse of it, Sam was glad Peony had taken protective measures. He'd expected a battered guide with broken covers and pages falling out. Instead, the herbal was bound in pristine caramel-colored leather with silver clasps which formed an elaborate tracery of stylized trees. Embossed in silver flowery characters was the title, _Airmid's Garden_.

Chloe stared at it for a moment as if it were a holy relic before laying it carefully on the table. "It's beautiful! Did Finnerty tell Bobby where he found it?"

"An antique bookstore in Dublin," Dean said. "The bookseller had purchased it from an estate. Finnerty mentioned that there was a tag on the outer package indicating it had belonged to John Denley."

"Oh my!" Peony exclaimed. "Not _the_ John Denley! But of course that makes sense, given the age and the rarity of the work."

"Who's John Denley?" Chloe asked.

"He was a bookseller in London during the early 1800s," Peony explained. "He specialized in books on the occult with many of them reportedly unique copies. A few catalogs remain, but the works were all sold off later in the century. For many of them, we only know the titles."

"It must have cost Finnerty a king's ransom to buy this," Chloe said, looking nervous. "How much do I owe him?"

"Nothing," Dean said. "Finnerty had helped the seller out with a cursed book a while ago. Besides, the seller couldn't verify the work. He wasn't able to open the clasps and didn't want to damage the book by forcing them."

Peony was studying the binding while mumbling to herself. When Chloe reached for it, she said, "Not yet, love." She closed her eyes and held her hand above the book with the palm facing downward. Slowly she made several passes over the cover. Chloe raised her eyebrows at Dean who shrugged and glanced at Sam for help.

"She may be sensing something," Sam hazarded. "Perhaps an astral presence."

Peony's eyes snapped open. "Goodness, that was strong. Dean, you said the bookseller couldn't open the clasps?"

"That's right."

Peony nodded as if that made perfect sense. "You should give it a try anyway." When Chloe reached for the book, she added, "Let Dean attempt it first."

Dean studied the clasps. There were two of them—at the bottom and top of the book. They appeared to be simple closures which snapped in place, but when Dean tried to open them, they wouldn't budge. He bent lower, frowning as he studied them. "The hinges must have rusted. Pliers might help."

Peony shook her head. "I don't think so. Sam, you should try."

Sam knew what the results would be in advance, and he was right. He had no better luck. Nor did Peony when she made the attempt.

"Now watch this." Peony murmured Latin phrases under her breath. Sam couldn't catch their meaning but a soft golden glow began to emanate from the book. Chloe gasped at the sight. It lasted for only a few seconds then evaporated.

"I've heard of this," Peony said with a satisfied nod. "Some witches ward their grimoires with spells so that only members of their bloodline are able to view the contents. If I'm right, no matter what method you use, you won't be able to open it. Even if you succeed in breaking the clasps, the pages will stick together and be illegible."

"Then we're at a dead end?" Chloe asked, wide-eyed with dismay.

Peony smiled at her. "I don't think so." She passed the herbal to her. "Now you try."

Chloe gave her a puzzled look but didn't question her. When she pressed one of the clasps, it snapped open.

Dean stared at her shocked as she opened the other one. "What the—?" He glanced at Peony and bit off the curse. "Chloe, is there something you haven't told us?"

"She must be related to Harriet," Peony said, replying for her. "I'd detected a connection between her and the grimoire from the beginning."

Sam watched Chloe with sympathy as she grappled with the significance. They already knew she was related to Bridget Bishop, the first woman to be hung as a witch in Salem. Now another witch was in her bloodline. Their dad had drilled into Dean and him that hunting was in their blood. It was becoming increasingly clear that witchcraft was in Chloe's.

It wasn't a big leap to make. Sam had wondered about Chloe's affinity for herbs and potions. Now he knew why.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Dean was glad when Peony was called away to greet a newly arrived guest at the inn. Chloe was watching him uneasily, mutely pleading to not freak out. He reminded himself that his dad had mentioned running into helpful witches during his travels. Good for him. The only witches Dean had encountered were the kind who gave you nightmares.

He could hear Sam's voice in his head urging restraint. He shouldn't hold Chloe's ancestors against her. But Sam could afford to be tolerant. His girlfriend Maia didn't have any witches in her family tree.

"Look at the bright side," Chloe urged. "This could mean I'll have a better chance of curing Sam and Neal."

"It also explains why that swamp spirit in New Jersey was so willing to help you out," Dean pointed out.

Her face reddened. "Are you going to bring that up forever? There was no lasting harm."

"Give him a minute," Sam urged, shooting Dean a frown to cool it. "It was just a shock."

"To me, too," Chloe said defensively. "I've known about Bridget Bishop for years, but she was simply a distant ancestor. I never felt any connection to her. Now, with this grimoire . . ." She paused to look at it once more, tracing the embossed title with her index finger. "When I was a child, I used to explore the prairies around our town, looking for wildflowers. Is that interest something I inherited from Harriet?"

"She was Irish," Dean said, clearing his throat. _Stop acting like a jerk. It's not Chloe's fault._ "Did any of your ancestors come from Ireland?"

She nodded. "When I was researching Bridget in Salem last spring, I discovered she was born in Ireland. Bridget is an Irish name. In Celtic mythology she was the goddess of fire, poetry, and wisdom."

"Harriet lived about a hundred years later," Sam said. "The two women could share a common ancestor."

Chloe began thumbing through the pages. The text was written by hand in a cursive script and was profusely illustrated with drawings. There had to be a couple of hundred pages at least. If a potion to sever a psychic link was described, it could take a while to find it. There was no table of contents or index to rely on. The thought of attempting to read early nineteenth-century script made Dean cross-eyed.

As long as the book was open, anyone could read the pages, but apparently only Chloe had the ability to open the clasps. Dean had been looking for a way for Sam to not overexert himself. That grimoire should do the trick. But it didn't solve what Dean was going to do for the next several days. The Mabon ceremony would be on Thursday. Whoopee. He'd have to wait till Sunday for the LARP battle. Chloe would be at work during the week. He supposed he could research her family tree, but he knew in advance he wouldn't like it.

"You haven't heard of any weird cases in New York recently?" Dean asked, trying not to sound desperate.

Chloe smiled sympathetically. "Worried you'll go crazy from boredom?"

He shrugged acknowledgment.

"Well, here's something. It's probably not your type of case, but a student was reported missing at Columbia."

She was right. Had he sunk that low?

"If you don't like that, how about this? I went to the Aloha Emporium for lunch and ran into Mozzie. He said that a murder victim was found west of the university near Riverside Park. The corpse supposedly had a very strange wound although I don't know what he considers strange."

Sam chuckled. "If Mozzie thinks it's weird, it must be off the charts. Dean, you should definitely check it out."

"And then there are the howls," Chloe added.

"What kind of howls?" Dean asked. This was the city, after all. A New Yorker would probably get spooked over a Barn Owl.

"That's just it. No one can figure them out. For the past week, they've been heard near the river. The university has had experts listen to the recordings. They've eliminated wolves and coyotes but don't have a positive match. Are there any monsters that howl?"

"Could be werewolves, but the full moon was a few days ago."

"Yeah, but if they're pure-bloods, they can transform at any time," Sam pointed out. "Hellhounds are another possibility."

"Hellhounds exist?" Chloe asked, her eyes widening.

Sam nodded with that sympathetic wince he gave when delivering bad news. "And before you ask, they actually are from Hell. They're often in league with crossroads demons— like Crowley, for instance. But we haven't heard any reports of hellhounds on the loose. Most likely frat boys are pranking someone," he added reassuringly.

If werewolves were involved, Dean should be able to tell by the condition of the corpse. New York City was Neal's turf and he did appear to have the knack for attracting monsters. Was Peter already stewing about it? Dean should give him a call. He could also touch base with Mozzie and replenish their stock of credit cards and fake IDs.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"What's the problem with Columbia University?" Peter asked.

Neal was working in his art niche in the tech lab when Peter dropped in to see him. Travis, whose workstation was next to Neal's, also spun around at their boss's question.

"Did something else happen?" Travis asked. "I heard about the corpse which was found on campus."

"It's been identified as a maintenance worker," Peter said, rolling over an extra chair.  "In addition we now have a second missing person."

"I didn't see anything about it on the news," Neal said, puzzled.

"You wouldn't. The police are keeping a lid on it to prevent a panic. Columbia has already posted notices about security concerns. There's not much else they can do. The cases may not be related. This time it was a freshman. There's nothing to connect the murder to the missing students except that all three are affiliated with Columbia." Peter paused to lock eyes with Neal. " _You_ be careful tomorrow."

Neal spent his Wednesdays at Columbia in an intense day of seminars and workshops. He turned to face Travis. "You'll be on campus tonight. You should as well."

He nodded. "Those howls will be the talk of the SETI group. I'm braced for Mozzie's interpretation." Travis and Mozzie were members of the Columbia working group on the search for extraterrestrial life. They met in the science building on campus.

"They're a real puzzle," Peter agreed. "It's been impossible to keep them out of the news."

"We could ask Dean and Sam about them," Neal suggested. "They arrived in town yesterday."

Travis frowned. "Are they here because Sam's worse?"

"Yeah, but that's not the only reason. Chloe's book arrived. Dean called me last night." Explaining the curse to the team had been decidedly awkward, but now it was a relief that it could be discussed openly. Everyone knew he and Sam were in the same boat.

"Any dreams last night?" Peter asked.

"All's quiet on the possessed front, I'm happy to report. As for Sam, it's gotten to the point he refuses to sleep. He's scheduled to have a physical with Christie today."

Peter grunted but thankfully didn't lay into him about his own sleep habits. "I'm glad the Winchesters are in town. Hughes came to see me this morning with a request I never thought I'd hear him make."

"What's that?"

"He wants me to consult with them." Peter grimaced. "Apparently now that Hughes knows about our experiences with vampires and witches, White Collar's field of expertise has been expanded. We've become the go-to unit for anything which can't be explained."

Travis chuckled. "We're now the Bureau's X-Files branch?"

Peter groaned. "I'm afraid so. Neal's joshed me about Fox Mulder needing to take a seat in the bullpen. That time has come."

Travis shook his head regretfully. "Mulder will be hard to find. We could appoint Mozzie instead." He scanned the lab. "I could carve out a space for him in the far corner, behind the bookcase. No one would know he's here."

"Don't rub salt in the wound," Peter growled.

"I expect you to give me no arguments over the new equipment requisitions I'll be forced to submit," Travis continued, in his best deadpan Vulcan manner.

"Plus additional budget allocations," Neal pointed out helpfully. "Paranormal sightings require nonstandard devices."

"Which I'm sure Hughes will welcome," Peter mocked. Hughes's stinginess with requisitions was legendary. Peter's expression grew serious. "That murder poses some features which have not been released to the press. When Hughes saw the bulletin from the Violent Crimes Unit, he brought them to my attention. Do you know if Dean's available today?"

"I'm sure of it. Chloe had told him about the howls and the murder. He's at loose ends and decided to check out the campus situation. That was one of the reasons he called me. Mozzie's giving him the campus tour today."

"We'll need a private place to talk. How about your art studio?"

Neal agreed readily and called Dean to make the arrangements.

**WCWCWCWCWCWC**

Peter hadn't been to Neal's studio in weeks and was looking forward to the visit. Neal was working on a series of river paintings for his masters' exhibition. The one Peter was most interested in was the confluence of the East and Hudson rivers as seen from the top of the FBI building.

But when they entered the studio, that wasn't the painting on the easel. "Witches?" Peter turned to face him, not attempting to conceal his dismay. "Was this really necessary?"

Neal winced. "I forgot it was there. Don't freak out. It's not what you think."

"What am I supposed to think? It looks damned similar to one of Goya's witch paintings."

"Exactly!"

"You don't have to act so pleased about it."

"Hear me out," Neal said with a huff. "You know I have to present a series of workshops on techniques used by the old masters. I figured as long as I'm dreaming about Goya, I might as well take advantage of it. He'll be the subject of my next workshop. This is one of the examples I'll use."

Neal's answer didn't ease the knot in Peter's gut. His claim that the painting would be left unfinished and he'd use it only for demonstration purposes was not reassuring. Didn't he realize that this was pulling him even more into Astrena's nightmare? "You're supposed to be working on the Renoir forgery."

"And I am," he insisted. The defensive note to his voice indicated he understood how bad it looked. "But I need to paint that at home. Meanwhile the workshop is scheduled for next week. Goya's easier than anyone else I could pick."

"You could have chosen Renoir."

Neal waved off the suggestion with a frustrated gesture. "I also could have picked Coolidge and painted dogs playing poker."

Maybe he thought that would end the argument but Peter would much rather see dogs grinning at him than the leers of a bunch of crazed-looking hags.

A knock on the door interrupted Peter's retort. He strode over to open the door and cool down. As expected, it was Dean and Mozzie.

When Dean spotted Neal's painting of a man in nightclothes cowering on the ground with five disfigured crones looming over him while demonic bats and owls hovered overhead, his eyebrows ascended into his hair. "Is that what you're seeing at night?"

"No, fortunately. The Marquesa is no ugly witch. She's beautiful, even if she is deadly. I'm painting this for a workshop."

"What did Goya call it?" Peter asked.

Neal's lips tightened before he replied. " _The spell._ "

Dean snorted. "You're not satisfied with Astrena torturing you? Why couldn't you paint dogs playing poker?"

Neal groaned. "Don't you have any appreciation for the technique?"

"I do!" Mozzie piped up. "I keep telling him we could make a mint"—he skidded to a stop and stared at Peter like a spooked rabbit—"Never mind."

Neal raked a hand through his hair. "Aren't we supposed to be discussing the photos?"

Peter took pity on him and laid them out on the worktable. It hadn't escaped his notice that Dean scrutinized Neal when he entered the room. Aside from his weight loss, it was hard to tell anything was wrong.

Neal had already seen the photos and stood back. Peter had no desire to look at them either. The neck of the victim was disfigured by a two-inch round wound bordered by depressions looking like teeth marks. But what kind of mouth leaves a perfectly round impression? The flesh inside the wound was blackened as if it had rotted away.

For once, Mozzie resisted making any wild speculations of extraterrestrials having invaded the campus. Instead, everyone waited on their monster expert.

"Beats the hell outta me," Dean admitted. "I've never seen anything like it. I'll need to keep the photos. Is that a problem?"

"No, I trust you not to spread them around. The police are stumped. They've even consulted with a zoologist."

"Do they think the attack could be related to the howls?" Neal asked.

Peter shrugged. "When you have nothing to go on, you grasp at straws. That's why Hughes sent the photos to me. I brought along a recording." He pulled out his laptop and played it for them.

"It doesn't sound like a werewolf or hellhound," Dean said.

"Werewolves exist?" Peter asked, rattled.

"Oh yeah, and all kinds of creatures you'd rather not know about." Dean studied the photos once more. "No werewolf made that bite mark." He flicked a glance at Peter. "I don't imagine the heart was missing? That's filet mignon to a werewolf."

Peter had new appreciation for Dean's line of work where asking about someone's organs being ripped out was apparently a routine occurrence. But in this case the corpse hadn't been mangled. The wound was severe but death had been caused by cardiac arrest. 

"How about vampires?" Neal asked. "Are they ever known to howl?"

"Not like that," Dean said. "And we haven't had any recent reports of nests in the area. Bobby's been checking with hunters and fang activity is way down. Not just here, but throughout the Northeast."

Dean had previously mentioned the reports from England that pure-bloods were culling herds. Whatever the cause, having fewer vampires around was a good thing.

Mozzie continued to study the photos. "The attack could be connected to the zombie sightings."

Neal snorted. "Werewolves aren't enough? We have to bring in zombies too?"

"Didn't you hear the reports?"

Neal shook his head, looking at him warily.

"A coed saw a zombie near Low Library last night," Mozzie said, scanning them one by one as if assessing their reaction. "Billy Feng over at the Aloha Emporium told me about it. Several students were discussing it this morning when they picked up malasadas."

"Speak English, will ya?" Dean complained.

"Malasadas are Hawaiian donuts," Neal explained. "You'd like them."

Frustrated, Peter barked, "Forget the donuts! Are there really zombies?"

Dean gave a half-smile. "Those other creatures I mentioned you don't want to know about? You can add zombies to the list. But that doesn't mean there are actually zombies on campus. This sounds more and more like someone's pranking the university. First howls, now zombies. The only thing that doesn't feel right is that it's not Halloween."

"Classes have only been in session for a couple of weeks," Neal said. "Some frat kid probably thought it'd be a great idea to pull Halloween gags off season. With the popularity of campus hacks . . ." He shrugged and gave Peter a mischievous smile. "Witches' broomsticks could be next."

Peter gave a low rumble at the reference of how his brother had tricked him as a boy, but didn't comment further. Thinking about pranks might provide an escape from Neal's own darker thoughts. "That could explain the zombie sighting but not the corpse . . . unless there's a very sick fraternity brother in our midst."

"It could be someone taking advantage of the pranks," Dean said. "A killer's fabricated a weapon that leaves mysterious marks in order to throw you off."

"Perhaps something like a cattle prod gone wrong?" Mozzie suggested. "It could be equipped with a special tip to look like a suckermouth."

"Suckermouth?" Peter repeated, searching for what Mozzie's fertile mind had come up with now.

Dean was doing the same. "Is that some sort of weird fish?"

Mozzie nodded. "An eel, lamprey. Anything that sucks blood."

"Such as a leech?" Neal asked.

"That's one kind. There are several other parasitic organisms. Some of them have teeth which they use to clamp onto their host. Remoras are a type of fish which exhibit similar behavior."

Peter knew Mozzie was a walking encyclopedia. He'd have to add ichthyology to his list of specialties, but at the moment Peter was more intrigued with his hypothesis. "So we could have a mentally deranged fraternity brother who's studying zoology. He decides to take advantage of a hazing ritual to go on a crime spree."

"That sounds too far-fetched," Neal objected.

Dean shrugged. "Not to me. Lots of sickos out there. You could be onto something. In the meantime, I'll ask Bobby if he's heard anything which could match the description."

"Allow me to be the voice of reason," Neal protested. "That's not generally my role, but someone has to step up to the plate. Couldn't the murder be something much more mundane but realistic? The victim was a maintenance worker. Perhaps the key factor is where he worked. The guy might have inadvertently stumbled on a crime. The killer planned the weird bite mark in order to obscure his motive."

"The police are researching that as well," Peter said calmly, "but so far there's nothing to indicate what it would be."

"Where was he found?" Dean asked. "I didn't see that mentioned in the news report."

"In the central heating plant." Peter paused. "Neal, I saw that look. Does the location mean something to you?"

Neal hedged for a moment. "It may be nothing, but the heating plant is underneath Low Library, not far from the location of Mozzie's zombie."

"It's not my zombie," Mozzie protested. "I don't have bragging rights since I didn't see it, but I'm keeping a close watch to find my first one. This could surpass my discovery of the Kirtland's Warbler in Central Park last spring. Did I mention I've started a checklist of monster sightings? He turned to Neal. "It's truly unfortunate you and Sam killed that swamp spirit in New Jersey before I was able to witness it."

Neal huffed. "You were a dork at the time, remember? As I recall you were singing 'Happy Trails' with Dean and Peter in the bar while Sam and I did the heavy lifting."

Dean glared at him. "Hey, there's no need to rake that up again."

Peter counted to ten backwards. "Neal, _why_ do you know about the heating plant?"

"Because there's an entrance to the tunnel network in said heating plant. I'm told it's been used to gain access to restricted areas of the grid." His innocent look didn't fool Peter for an instant. Neal must have used that entrance many times.

"Yes!" Mozzie exclaimed, snapping his fingers. "A colony of zombies must be residing within the tunnels!"

"Hold on, Zombie Hunter," Dean growled. "Just what tunnels are you talking about?"

"There's an extensive network underneath Columbia," Neal explained. "Some are public, but most of the grid is restricted. There are also some older disused tunnels. The system dates back to the 1800s."

Mozzie shoved his stool closer to Dean. "In Columbia lore, there are rumors of tunnels which haven't as yet been rediscovered. A few adventurous spelunkers have already identified several of them. New discoveries are constantly being made." Mozzie was being coy. Peter knew for a fact that several of those rumored tunnels had been found by him and Neal. Was he now trying to get Dean to enlist?

"Is this where you got your obsession with slime?" Dean asked skeptically.

"Obsession has much too pejorative a connotation, but yes I've made some fascinating discoveries. My focus has been on slime's connection to aliens. Travis senses the potential. He's sanctioned a special subgroup of the SETI committee to research my theory. I hadn't considered they could be zombie drool. Have you ever heard of alien zombies?"

Neal glanced at Peter, his eyes full of merriment. Frustrated as Peter was at trying to conduct a halfway serious discussion of a very real murder when there were reports of howls and zombies muddying the investigation path, Mozzie's brand of medicine was acting as a tonic restorative for Neal. Travis had allowed Mozzie to form that subgroup so the main committee didn't have to deal with his more radical theories. Peter couldn't wait to tell Travis that Mozzie had found a new area of speculation.

He could also report to Hughes that he'd carried out the request. Dean would check with Bobby about the unusual wound. When Mozzie offered to take Dean on a tour of the tunnels, Peter restrained himself from ordering them to stick to the legal ones. If Dean and Mozzie wanted to scour the underground grid for zombies, the less he knew about it the better.

Peter hadn't seen Bianka when he and Neal arrived at his studio. After the two zombie hunters left to collect gear, Peter asked him about her.

"She has classes in the afternoon. I expect to see her this evening."

"Is she difficult to manage?"

Neal raised an eyebrow, a smile forming. "Whatever do you mean?'

Peter groaned. "You know what I mean. She's just down the hall. She can drop in at any time." His words trailed off. Surely Neal wouldn't insist he draw a picture.

Neal glanced around his studio. "You have a point. Seldom have I seen such seductive surroundings." He chuckled. "Relax. Richard and Aidan have made it their mission to provide distractions. When Richard's not wandering in to chat about art, he asks me to jam with him. And Aidan's only too willing to schedule fencing practice at a moment's notice."

The Three Musketeers. Peter breathed easier. Neal's friends had banded together to thwart a scheme last autumn, calling themselves by the acronym of AFO for "All For One." They were stepping up to the plate once more. And as fellow students, Aidan and Richard wouldn't provoke Bianka's suspicion. "I noticed your guitar in the corner."

"And Richard's keeping his here, too. Letting them know about the con we're running was a smart move. My next date with Bianka isn't till Friday night." Neal's smile broadened into a grin. "Think hopeful thoughts. Maybe a zombie plague will force us to cancel."

 

* * *

_Notes: John Denley is a historical character and his interest in the occult is well documented.  Harriet Beaufort is also a historical figure but there's no mention of her being a witch. Only in the world of Crossed Lines will you find references to Chloe's book. Dean and Sam have their father's journal for guidance. Now Chloe has Airmid's Garden. This week I wrote about[Family Treasures](https://pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com/2018/10/family-treasures.html) for our blog._

_Dean is concerned about Chloe's connection to witches, little suspecting that Maia is much more dangerous. Has Maia truly turned over a new leaf?  Next week's chapter provides some clues. Also coming up in Chapter 4: Would-be Lovers, Bianka helps Neal out (!) and Dean comes up with a suspect for the murders._

_Crowley's a bit of a wild card in my stories as he is in Supernatural episodes. He's been known to occasionally help the Winchesters when it suits his self-interest. In this series, he's possessed Curtis Hagen and is able to access his memories. That raises the possibility of Crowley being even more of a free agent. I was delighted to hear from some fellow Crowley fans last week. I'm glad you don't mind if he's not quite as evil as he sometimes was on Supernatural :)_

_Blog: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation: [www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com](http://www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com)_   
_Chapter Visuals and Music: The Night Howls on the Hudson board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website:[www.pinterest.com/caffreycon](http://www.pinterest.com/caffreycon)_   
_This week's pins include the Goya painting Neal was working on as well as the dog painting Peter preferred._


	4. Would-be Lovers

**Columbia University. September 21, 2005.**

When Wednesday rolled around, Neal slipped into character. For the entire day he'd be Neal Caffrey: grad student and Bianka Kaldy's would-be lover.

She'd managed to register in two of the seminars he was taking—one on the Italian Baroque and the other a double period on Impressionism. They had lunch together. They studied together in the library. To anyone who wasn't privy to the con, they'd believe he was bewitched by her. Neal had secured permission for his closest friends to be informed about her. In addition to Richard and Aidan, Neal's cousin Angela and her boyfriend Michael also knew the truth. Michael was a year ahead of Neal in the art history doctoral program. They attended many of the same classes. It wouldn't do for him and Angela to get the wrong idea. It also meant that they were available to provide excuses.

Klaus considered Neal to be a hopeless romantic who wore his heart on his sleeve. He must have pointed out the weakness to Bianka. Neal played to his reputation and embellished it with a chivalrous twist. He never made the first move. He allowed Bianka to call the shots and when necessary stepped back to not take advantage of her. It was a seemingly endless loop of tease and retreat.

Currently he was in tease mode. He'd invited her to come along with him to the Avery Fine Arts Library during a break in the afternoon grind of classes. His purpose was twofold. Yes, they could exchange long, soulful glances . . .  and occasionally more. On a previous library session he'd discovered that Bianka could manipulate her foot with remarkable flexibility under a study table. But today he was looking for dexterity of a different kind.

Neal intended to use the time at the library to bone up on Goya while hoping he could keep her from giving him a boner in the process. Bianka wasn't faking her artistic ability or knowledge of art. She favored classical realism in her own works. It had crossed his mind that she chose the style to hint that she was also a gifted forger. He and Peter had both speculated that she was Klaus's newest protégé.

Neal was confident he'd be able to emulate Goya's style for the coming workshop, but he also had to be prepared for a barrage of questions. He planned to keep Bianka so busy helping him research the artist that she'd have no time for anything extracurricular.

His advisor, Ivan Sherkov, had suggested Neal conduct the master classes in lieu of teaching assistant duties. It was a natural fit since Neal was specializing in art authentication for his doctorate. He gladly agreed since he could call on his forgery expertise to explain the various techniques. His first workshop on Degas had been standing room only. He expected Goya would be as well. The problem didn't lie with his fellow grad students but the professors. They'd been brutal with their questions. He suspected they awarded themselves points for tripping him up. With Degas they'd managed to score a few hits. Neal was determined that this time he and Goya would emerge victorious.

It was a short walk from their classes in Schermerhorn Hall to the library. Although Avery Hall was a modern structure, its warm red brick walls blended harmoniously with the other buildings in the quad. A year ago Neal had barely started classes. He remembered how he'd resolved to keep his student life partitioned from work and particularly from his former life as a thief.

It hadn't lasted long. Within a month of classes starting, he was meeting Peter on campus while working undercover for Klaus Mansfeld. Now Ydrus had planted a spy as a fellow art student. Somewhere along the way, Neal had discarded his tried-and-true defense mechanism of erecting walls. Life couldn't be neat and tidy. It was by nature chaotic and messy.

Nowhere was that more evident than the woman walking next to him. The blonde-haired beauty could be a model although she usually dressed down in jeans and tunic tops. She'd first played the part of a shy Hungarian exchange student. Now he wondered if she even was Hungarian. Neal didn't speak the language and couldn't evaluate. But Bianka worked for Ydrus so he was skeptical of everything she told him.

"Why did you pick Goya for your October workshop?" she asked. "He's not one of the artists you're studying this term."

"Are you familiar with the series he painted of witches?"

Her face flashed understanding. "You are preparing for Halloween! In Hungary, we celebrate All Souls' Day and All Saints' Day. I have never gone trick or treating."

"We'll have to make up for that grave omission."

She hooked his jacket with her hand and drew him close to her. "If you ring my doorbell, I will have the treat ready for you."

He took her face in his hands and leaned down for the kiss. This wasn't Bianka. This was Sara. He was entwining her copper tresses in his fingers, not Bianka's blond strands. It was Sara's lips he felt. He deepened the kiss.

When he pulled back, Bianka was breathless, her skin flushed. Mission accomplished. He gave her a mischievous smile. "What costume will you be wearing?"

"I think you already know. It's the same one I'll have on Friday night. I assume you're still free."

"I am, and ready to take advantage of you being healthy." They resumed their walk.

"What you must think of me! I have never had such a run of bad luck. You probably will not believe me, but I was never sick till I moved to New York."

"You haven't built up resistance to Yankee germs yet, but it will come."

"My bathroom looks like a pharmacy," she said despondently.

"What does your doctor say?"

"He wants me to come in for more blood work, but I am resisting. I feel fine now. I am beginning to believe I am simply allergic to doctors."

Neal could easily relate to her aversion to doctors, but now he was forced to have Christie on speed dial.

When they arrived at the library, Neal headed straight for the section on Goya. Bianka helped him carry books over to one of the long wood tables. They both cast aside flirting as they discussed in low tones the Spanish master's works.

"Have you heard of his black paintings?" Neal asked.

"Are they part of his witch series?"

"No, but many of the themes are similar. Satan is depicted as a goat, and witches abound. The black paintings are a series of murals Goya painted on the walls of his house. He was about seventy-five years old—frail, deaf, and in ill health. He feared he was growing mad." Neal lapsed into silence. Goya had become a soul brother. If he were living like Goya, alone and sick, what would he be like? Neal found himself comparing his situation more and more to the artist even though he realized it wasn't healthy. Perhaps that was the real reason he welcomed Bianka's help in the library. Her presence always gave him something else to think about.

He explained to her how the black paintings had been transferred onto canvas supports. They'd been damaged in the process and subsequent restoration efforts had not always been kind to them. It was difficult to find good images of the works, but the library had a book in Spanish which contained the best illustrations he'd seen.

Bianka could also read Spanish, making her assistance even more valuable. For a while they could cast off the roles both of them were playing and be colleagues together. That was the Bianka he liked.

"Neal, what do you think of this?" She showed him an image of a man lying in bed. The sheets were in disarray. His face was distorted into an expression of terror. A small demon was leering at him from behind the curtains of the bedstead.

Neal swallowed. It was eerily similar to the impressions he'd had at night.

"This reminds me of drawings I've seen of Scarbo," she said. "Are you familiar with him?"

Had Scarbo been in the loft with him? Why hadn't he thought of him earlier? After everything that had happened, was he still in denial?

"Neal?"

"The demon who torments artists and writers? Yeah, I've heard of him." Choking back the personal discomfort, Neal attempted to study the image with objective eyes.

"The subject of the print is clearly an artist," she said. "You can see easels and stacked canvases in the background. The earliest mention of Scarbo I've ever come across is in Bertrand's series of poems _Gaspard de la Nuit_. That was written about twenty years later. Could Bertrand have gotten his inspiration from Goya?"

It was a provocative theory but would be difficult to prove. While Bianka researched Bertrand's background on her laptop, he continued to study the print. Neal wasn't the only one who felt a connection with Goya. Hagen had admitted to similar feelings shortly before he was turned into a demon. The evidence suggested Goya was one of Astrena's victims. Was Bertrand as well? And was the lurking shadow Neal had spotted in the loft really Scarbo or a hallucination created by Astrena?

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Peter called in the evening while he was painting in his studio. "Can you talk?" Peter asked. Neal heard a sports announcer in the background whose voice gradually faded as the volume was reduced.

"It's just me and my paints." Keiko had asked Bianka to go to a symposium with her that evening. Aidan's girlfriend had become a valuable member of Neal's support team. With her innocent demeanor, no one would ever suspect her of anything devious. "What's the report from White Collar?"

"You remember Jones and Travis went to see Aidan about the identity fraud situation?"

"Yeah. Jones thinks the disappearance of the computer science student could be connected to a hacker group."

"Aidan hasn't heard of anything going on, but he said when he's at Columbia he focuses on art and shies away from the computer science department. So Travis asked a friend of his on the SETI committee. Name of Quint Worland. He's a junior, studying computer science. Travis said Quint's been helpful in working with Mozzie on slime research."

"Ah, yes, the Slimebusters. Mozzie mentioned he'd found an ally. Does that mean Quint is too unreliable to be trusted?"

Peter chuckled. "Apparently not. Travis said he talked with Quint early on about Mozzie's theory that slime in Columbia's tunnels has an extraterrestrial origin. It's safe to say Quint's not a believer but he likes Mozzie and enjoys working with him. Quint told Travis he'd seen the missing student on campus a day before his disappearance with a man Quint didn't recognize, but that doesn't mean much. He also knows of two other students who suddenly dropped off the grid. Both were studying programming. He figured they'd left for other opportunities."

"Like hacking?"

"It's worth checking out. Quint gave Travis the names and offered to keep an eye out." Peter paused to take a swig of something, at this hour probably beer. "Everything okay with you?"

"Yeah." No point in mentioning the Marquesa or Scarbo. He was sure he'd gotten a little sleep.

"That's good. You planning to go to the Mabon ceremony tomorrow?"

"How do you know about that?"

"El mentioned it."

"Don't tell me she's joined a coven too?"

"God, no. Janet told her about it. You and Mozzie can have fun with the witches."

"Hey, I'm not going either. Aidan scheduled a fencing practice tomorrow night."

"El also has an excuse. She's in rehearsals for her community players' first production of the season."

"Did they go with _Bell, Book and Candle_?"

"It would be hard for them not to since Electra suggested it. Now that her foundation is subsidizing their productions, the actors want to express their appreciation. She'll be in town for a few days on foundation business. El said she was planning to come to their rehearsal on Friday night." Peter's voice trailed off. Neal knew where he was leading.

"Electra hasn't contacted me. I think she took the hint." On a previous visit to New York, she'd invited Neal out to dinner where she intimated it wasn't only his paintings she was interested in. When Neal failed to pick up on her overture, she must have gotten the message.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

While Dean sometimes joshed Sam for having an infinite capacity for tooling, the truth was there were limits. After spending the day holed up with Chloe's grimoire in Peony's sitting room, Sam's knowledge of herbal remedies was still in the cellar. Once he was able to decipher Harriet Beaufort's handwriting and arcane style, he was left with convoluted descriptions of how to prepare poultices and potions. She was annoyingly vague about what they were used for as if anyone reading the book should already know.

Dean had called a couple of times to check on him. Sam gathered he wasn't having any better luck in his search for evidence of paranormal events on campus. Chloe was at work. Maia had offered to keep him company but Sam insisted she go to Columbia. She was supposed to be in New York to research her thesis, and he didn't want to stand in her way. They might tease each other about staying in bed all day, but after the previous night, she could probably use some off time to recharge her batteries too.

Making love with Maia was more intense than with anyone else he'd ever known—even Jessica, whom he'd been deeply in love with. With Maia, it was like he was transported to another world with sensations so overwhelming . . . Sam gulped and took another swig of the herbal tea Peony had provided him.

Was he in love with Maia? They'd only dated a few short weeks. But if he weren't there yet, he was certainly standing on the precipice. She'd already told him that she was falling in love with him. Everything was moving far too fast and overlaying it all was the curse. Sam suspected Neal was having a worse time coping with the threat than he was. In a hunter's life, if it wasn't a curse, it was something else. The threat of being killed was a constant.

Dean and Chloe's situation was much more open. She knew he was a hunter. She understood the life. Sam doubted Dean thought about whether or not he was in love. They were living moment by moment. Sam, on the other hand, was hiding behind walls. Now he was concealing the curse, pretending there was nothing wrong with him.

His upstairs brain told him he should distance himself from Maia. Her sheltered life as a grad student was a world away from his. Jessica had been caught in the crossfire and lost her life as a result. He couldn't risk the same tragedy happening to Maia.

But if he stopped seeing her, wouldn't it start all over? Dean would prod him into dating someone else, when all Sam wanted to do was date Maia. Was there any way they could make it work?

Peony's tea might be healthy, but it did nothing to help keep him awake. Tatyana was snoozing puppy dreams at his feet. He finally gave up on reading as a lost cause and locked the grimoire in the drawer, leaving it open so he could continue at a later time. Peony had given him and Chloe keys to the drawer. Even though others wouldn't be able to open the book, they couldn't risk it being stolen.

Returning to the table, he crossed his arms and laid his head down for a brief nap.

. . .

A gentle kiss on the back of his neck roused him. "Wouldn't you be more comfortable in bed?" a soft voice asked.

He smiled as he turned around. "When did you return?"

"A half hour ago," Maia said, brushing up the sleeves of her lavender angora sweater. She nodded to a thick book on the table. "I've been reading while waiting for you to wake up." She gave him a worried smile. "After last night you probably think I have an ulterior motive, and normally you'd be right, but not now. You look exhausted."

He sat up straighter. "It's nothing. I was just resting my eyes." Not a complete fabrication.

"You mentioned you were helping Chloe with research. Is it something for her upcoming novel?"

"In a way, yes," he hedged, feeling guilty over misleading her.

"You should take a break. I've done enough studying for one day. It's beautiful outside and I bet you don't even know it. Indian summer weather like this can't last. I'm going to take Tatyana for a walk in Riverside Park. It's only a couple of blocks away. Would you like to join us?"

At the mention of her name, Tatyana cocked her head to add her mute pleas.

"There's nothing I'd rather do with my two best girls," he declared.

While Maia went upstairs to fetch their jackets, he unlocked the drawer and closed the grimoire.

Riverside Park's wooded groves and scenic vistas of the Hudson River were not what he expected. As they meandered on the trails, chatting about Maia's studies and poetry, the grim reality of Sam's job faded into insignificance.

"Let's grab something to eat and watch the sunset," Maia suggested. "I saw food carts by the tennis court. You fancy a chili dog?"

He laughed. "Don't you want something more refined?"

She exchanged looks with Tatyana. "Do we?" The puppy whimpered in response. "That means _no_ ," Maia declared, "but she'd like us to hold the mustard on hers."

A few minutes later, they were loaded down with food and soft drinks. Maia scrounged a bench where they could sit and enjoy the sunset.

Sam dug in. He was more ravenous than he'd realized.

Maia giggled and wiped his mouth with a napkin. He returned the favor, dabbing at hers. Who knew eating chili dogs could be so sexy? Sam stretched his legs out and relaxed, putting his brain on off mode.

"This is what we needed," she said quietly. "I wish  . . ." Her words trailed off.

He turned to look at her. "Anything wrong?"

"Not with me. I'm worried about you."

"There's no need—" He stopped abruptly. He was being an idiot. Of course she must have noticed something was wrong. "I'm sorry, I haven't been feeling a hundred percent recently."

"Do you think you're coming down with a bug?"

He shook his head. Tatyana looked up at him with soulful eyes and he stroked her silky fur. Eventually it would have to come out. By not telling Maia, he was doing her a disservice. "In your studies, have you ever come across the name of Astrena?"

"Astrena?" she repeated, a puzzled look on her face.

"She's an obscure Greek goddess. I'd never heard of her until recently. She's reported to be the goddess of witches and vampires."

She nodded. "I've seen a few references to her."

He took her hand. Was it fair of him to dump his burden onto her lap?

"Sam, what's going on?"

"Dean and I think Astrena's feeding off me," he admitted. "Psychically." As she gazed at him horrified, he explained about the psychic linkage. "It's not just me. Neal's been affected too."

"Are you sure?"

He nodded. "It's my job to know about this stuff." Maybe it was frustration over his own situation or just because he felt so powerless to do anything about it, but Sam knew at that moment he couldn't hold it back any longer. He told Maia about their work, about being hunters. She handled it well—much more seriously than he would have expected. Didn't question him once for being crazy when he explained that witches, vampires, and demons were real.

Maia rubbed her forehead with a shaky hand. "I had no idea how you've been suffering. You have to believe me."

"Of course, I do," he said, slipping an arm around her. "I've been hiding it from everyone. Dean doesn't know how bad it's been. He's worried enough. I couldn't tell him the full extent of it." Why was he sharing so much with Maia? He wondered if subconsciously he was trying to drive her away. If she gave up on him, wouldn't it be for the best?

"When you didn't sleep last night, I thought it was strange. You were trying not to, weren't you?"

He nodded.

"When you finally dozed off, you woke me up. You were restless. I was worried you were having a nightmare."

"I remember you trying to comfort me." He scanned the park. The sky was now dark but the trails in the park were illuminated by pole lamps. "Having you there was a help. For the past couple of weeks, it's been getting worse." He lowered his voice still further. "I've been seeing a small demon. He comes into my room. Leers at me. I feel like knives are being plunged into me."

She gasped. "You must wake me if this happens again!"

He tightened his grip around her. "You're a good influence. Last night I didn't see him."

Tatyana had been lying quietly by his feet, but she jumped up and gave a low whine, straining at her leash.

Maia turned to look. "She must have seen something. It's probably just a squirrel."

Tatyana was trying to head toward the river. Sam stood up to scan the area. In the distance, he spotted a furtive shape loping near the water. It appeared to be listing to one side as it ran, its steps appearing oddly out of rhythm.

"Did you see that?" Maia exclaimed.

"Stay here," he ordered and sprinted off after it. Was that really a zombie? It was the only thing he knew of who ran like that. Off in the distance he heard a faint _"Aar-ooooooooooh!"_

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

When Neal walked into the bullpen on Thursday, Travis was standing at Jones's desk. Howls were the topic du jour. Neal and Richard had heard them when they walked to fencing practice the previous evening. Sam had also phoned in a report. Neal tossed his fedora on the bust of Socrates on his desk and joined them.

"What's Mozzie's theory?" Jones asked Neal.

"You sure you want to know?"

Jones set his jaw. "I knew it. Zombies. With so many reports coming in, the students may be right."

"Not necessarily," Travis cautioned. "Aidan believes they're wolf howls which have been digitally distorted. He works with audiovisual special effects. He should know."

Peter strode over from the breakroom, carrying his FBI mug. "I heard that, and I like his theory."

"Aidan's stressing much more about the fencing meet next Saturday than howls in the night," Neal confirmed. "It's our first of the season, and our opponent is his alma mater, MIT. Aidan was captain of the undergrad fencing team there. I asked him if he doesn't have mixed loyalties, but he claims not to."

"I'll have to see that for myself," Peter said. "I need to be on campus anyway for the telescope workshop and I wouldn't want to miss your first competition of the season."

Neal hoped the extra adrenaline boost from supporters would be just what he needed to kick-start his performance. Last night, the warm-up exercises had left him out of breath. He hadn't mentioned it to his teammates even though Richard and Aidan knew about the curse. Neal was the only one who had a chance with saber. Somehow he'd have to power through it.

"As long as I'm at Columbia, I'll also stop by the LARP strategy session," Peter added, tossing out that bombshell as if it was routine news.

"You're participating?" Neal felt the grin break out on his face.

"El talked me into it. She's probably conspiring with Janet as we speak."

"Have you settled on your costume?" Jones asked. "Will you be a noble or one of the peasants?"

Peter groaned. "More decisions! I told El she was free to pick anything as long as it doesn't require fittings."

Neal felt his cell phone vibrate in his pants pocket and reached for it. Dean's name was on the display. After a few words, he switched to speaker. The others needed to hear this as well.

 _"Bobby just called."_ The sound of muffled conversation and clatter of dishes in the background made Neal suspect Dean was calling from the student center. _"I'd sent him the photos of the corpse. He thinks we've got a leech-man on our hands."_

"A leech-man," Peter repeated, looking flummoxed. "Never heard of one."

_"Me neither, but you should know by now, that doesn't mean much. Bobby claims the bite mark had to come from a leech, but the size of the wound indicates someone larger, most likely man-sized."_

"Dean, this is Travis. Does Bobby know of any accounts of leech monsters?"

 _"It took some digging but he found one. Weewillmeku."_ Dean spelled it for them. _"No guarantees on the pronunciation. From here on out, I'm calling him Willy. It's an ancient Native American river spirit. Bobby has photos of an old pictograph which is supposedly of him. It shows a leech-man rising up from the water."_

"Do you know which tribe believed in him?" Neal asked as Peter looked at him questioningly.

_"The pictograph was associated with a Lenape settlement in upstate New York along the Hudson River. I gather there are some archaeological sites around the Hudson Gorge Wilderness."_

"I know where that is," Peter said. "It's north of Albany where I grew up. There's a Native American museum close by."

"Are you saying that an ancient spirit traveled all the way down the Hudson River and is now attacking Manhattan?" Travis asked, his eyebrows rising to his hairline.

Dean snorted. _"A homegrown version of Godzilla? Sam and I do crazy all the time, but even for us this is a stretch."_

"It may not be as implausible as you think," Neal said and turned to Peter. "At the site where Columbia's building the new sports complex, they've found fragments of pottery made by the Lenape.  I talked with Tricia about them. Her husband Mitch had been brought in to consult on the discovery."

Peter took a deep breath, his frown deepening. "Dean, do you have any information about the habits of this leech-man?"

_"Willy? A few. According to the lore, when he was angry, he'd rise up from the water and attack members of the tribe. He didn't kill all of them. Some behaved like . . . um . . . Hell, no good way to say it—zombies."_

Jones gulped. "So the zombie sightings are real?"

_"Could be. Sam and Maia saw one in Riverside Park yesterday evening. Sam tried to pursue it. He couldn't catch it, but he swears it had the mouth of a leech."_

"Any hints on how we get rid of a leech-man and his zombie minions?" Neal asked.

_"You gotta appease the spirit, but the lore doesn't say how. That's up to us to figure out."_

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Maia paused in the lobby of the Hotel Plaza Athénée to check her reflection in the mirror. She'd tied her hair back into a carefully crafted chignon. Gone were the jeans and loose sweater which had been her standard attire in Manhattan. Instead she wore a tightly wrapped sheath dress in coral silk and heels. It was a sophisticated professional look Electra would applaud. She was calm and cool. If she kept repeating it to herself, maybe she'd believe it.

Inside her heart was beating so fast she was sure Electra would notice it. Maia had never defied Electra. Never even dreamed she'd want to. But for Sam's sake, for Neal's sake, she had to make the effort.  This was the first time Electra had ever fed off someone Maia had chosen. As for Neal, only a couple of months ago Electra had castigated Alcy for not exercising restraint with the artist in Connecticut. Based on Crowley's report, it was evident that Electra was devouring Neal at an even faster rate.

Maia smoothed an errant lock of hair behind her ear. The gilt mirrors, chandeliers, and exuberant floral murals of the lobby were appropriate for her sister. The rococo extravagance used to suit her as well, but no longer. Maia took a deep breath and pressed the elevator button.

Electra had arrived yesterday from New Haven. She planned to attend the Mabon celebration at Inwood Hill Park this evening. Electra had been able to tap into not only the prayers of the Wiccans but the applications to her foundation. Columbia University, Broadway producers, art galleries, even that small community theater association that Neal's friend Elizabeth was a member of—they all acted to make her more powerful.

Electra smiled her approval when Maia entered the suite. "You have exquisite timing. I've just received a new selection of blood. We can sample them together." Electra gestured for to take a seat on the ivory velvet sofa. She'd already placed the crystal bottles and glasses on a side cart.

Maia wondered who her supplier was. She suspected it was one of the pure-bloods, but Electra hadn't provided any of the details about her children since the near disaster in Shepherdstown. Had Electra grown suspicious of her? Were Maia's efforts to influence her doomed from the start?

"You'll like this one," Electra said, pouring her a glass. "According to his bio, he's a poet who already has several published works to his name. He'd make an ideal protégé."

Maia eyed the glass with loathing. She hadn't drunk a drop of blood since she and Sam started dating.  Once she abstained, her memories of who she'd been before Electra abducted her began to resurface. Maia had suspected for a while that Electra could cast a spell to make blood addictive. Only recently did she realize that it had distorted her personality.

She'd hoped to dissuade Electra from feeding off Sam and Neal by being the adoring little sister Electra wanted her to be. But if she tasted the blood, would she even care what happened to them?

She should have realized this was exactly the sort of trick Electra would play. Maia set the glass down on the cocktail table without taking a sip. "How long have you been feeding off Sam?"

"I should ask you the same question. When did you stop?"

"Why are you doing this? Is it to punish me? Or do you just want to kill Sam for the pleasure of it?"

Electra flinched as if Maia had struck her. Recovering quickly, she hissed, "Careful, my love. Remember who I am. It's become painfully clear you're besotted over him. You've forgotten who you are. _My_ sister. _My_ handmaiden. You live to serve _me_. No one else."

"So to punish me, you'll kill Sam?"

Electra nodded coldly. "He'll be no loss. His value as an artist is nil."

"What if I stop seeing him? Will it make any difference?" Out of the corner of her eye, Maia saw a rustling in the curtains. Scarbo's head peeked out, a lecherous leer on his face. If Maia hadn't been staying with Sam, the demon would have visited him the past three nights. Did that mean he was concentrating on Neal even more?

Electra shook her head slowly. "No, my dearest. It won't make any difference at all. You're too far gone. This is for your own good. Once Sam is gone, you'll return to me."

"What about Neal?"

"Why do you care about Neal?" Electra demanded. "He's not your concern."

A few months ago, Maia would have agreed. Now she'd adopted him and his friends along with Sam, Dean, and Chloe as members of her clan. Her old one had been wiped out centuries ago, but no druid could last for long without a clan. Even though the members would likely never know about it, she'd sworn fealty to her new circle.

"You chastised Alcy for being indiscreet," Maia said, attempting the diplomatic route. "Aren't you doing the same thing? You're putting all of us at risk of exposure."

"Don't use that tone with me." In an instant, Electra transformed herself into Astrena, the blue goddess, Queen of the Stars. Her ice-blue figure towered over Maia.

So much for diplomacy.

"I could kill you now." Electra's voice was a low rumble of approaching thunder. She clenched her hand into a fist and Maia felt her fingers around her throat, suffocating her.

Her vision blurred into a red haze. Maia fell to her knees. Suddenly the pressure stopped.

"Get out of my sight," Electra ordered. "But heed my words. I won't be so lenient next time."

 

* * *

_Notes: In an earlier story, Raphael's Dragon, Neal was troubled by Curtis Hagen's interest in the witch paintings of Francisco Goya. The artist next popped up in the Crossed Lines story Witches' Sabbath. Now it's Neal's turn to fall under the paintings' spell. That can't be a good sign. I speculated about the significance for this week's blog post, "[Goya, a Lasting Influence](https://pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com/2018/10/goya-lasting-influence.html)." Crowley has possessed Hagen. Does that mean he too may be affected?_

_The print described by Bianka is fictitious but it resembles an actual print by Goya: "The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters." Goya also painted what appears to be the likeness of Scarbo in his black paintings. The visuals are on my Pinterest board._

_I based Weewillmeku on a water monster of the Algonquin people: Weewillmekq. There are various spellings for his name. I picked one which wasn't quite as much a tongue twister. There's much more information about him here:[www.native-languages.org/weewillmekq.htm](http://www.native-languages.org/weewillmekq.htm)_

_Blog: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation: [ www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com ](http://www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com) _  
_Chapter Visuals and Music: The Night Howls on the Hudson board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website:[ www.pinterest.com/caffreycon ](http://www.pinterest.com/caffreycon)_


	5. Angry Spirits

**Manhattan. September 22, 2005.**

"How the hell do you go about hunting a leech-spirit?" Dean realized it was unfair to vent his frustration, but Bobby was used to it. "Follow slime residue?"

"I wish!" Bobby snorted. "That photo of the pictograph is all I got. Did you find anything in your dad's journal?"

"Nothing." And that about summed up what they knew about Willy. Sam might insist on calling him Weewillmeku, but until they'd been properly introduced, the dude would just be a Willy. The pictograph showed a vaguely human torso on top of some wavy lines which supposedly represented water. Did that mean they were supposed to search by canoe?  Clad themselves in deerskin and hunt by bow and arrow? That wasn't about to happen.

Mozzie showed up at Peony's while he and Sam were having breakfast. The Mabon ritual was to be held at Inwood Hill Park that evening. Dean had spent the rest of the morning with Mozzie in a fruitless search of Riverside Park while Sam worked on Chloe's grimoire. Over lunch back at the inn—and Peony's pies were almost as good as her sister Wisteria's—Mozzie offered to show them around the site where the Lenape pottery fragments had been found. Dean saw no reason to object. It was close to water—as good as any place to find Willy—and the fresh air might do Sam some good.

Maia was spending the day at the university library, but Tatyana would be well cared for. Peony was a dog-lover and had adopted her as the inn's puppy-in-residence whenever Maia visited. She'd even provided a bed for her next to the bay window in the front lounge.

The park was a short drive north from the university. Mozzie had Dean park next to a baseball field which was close to a wooded point overlooking the Harlem River. They got out of the Impala while he indicated landmarks.

"This stretch of the river is actually Spuyten Duyvil Creek. Now, follow me. There's a good vantage spot at the tip of the point." 

Ranger Mozzie led them onto a trail lined with old trees.

"What's the significance of the blue _C_ on the far bank?" Dean asked. The giant letter was painted onto a rocky embankment. There were several words he could think of which started with _C._ None of them were probably correct but they made him smile.

"That's known as the Columbia C," Mozzie explained. "It was painted by members of the university's rowing team in the 1950s and has been maintained ever since. The Columbia boathouse is on the south side of the river, just to our east. You see that complex to the right of the boathouse? That's the construction site for the sports complex expansion. The parking lot next to the boathouse is where the Lenape pottery shards were found."

While Sam quizzed Mozzie about Native American sites in the area, Dean scanned the large soccer field to the west. Named Celtic Field, it would be the site of the Mabon ritual at sunset. Some of the organizers were already setting up tables.

Peony said she'd chosen that particular field because of the name. She thought it'd be particularly auspicious. Dean was tempted to scoff at the thought, but Peony's psychic abilities were no joke. Many of the Wicca rituals dated back to old Celtic practices. Now that Chloe knew she was related to Harriet Beaufort, she'd asked for Mozzie's help in tracing her Irish roots.

No shamrocks in the Winchester family tree. Nobody was going to trace his ancestors back to a leprechaun . . . or a druid.

Mabon was supposed to be a time of thanksgiving and the coven planned to ask members to voice their reasons to be thankful. Neal's cousin Angela had coerced several music students to attend and sing songs. There was something called a drum circle where participants would beat drums and dance. Prayers would be offered to pagan deities. He and Sam planned to patrol during the event. Would a Lenape leech-spirit be offended by the Wicca ceremony? Dean wasn't taking anything for granted.

"You see that strip of marsh by the boathouse?" Mozzie pointed to a weedy area on the edge of the river.

"What about it?" Sam asked.

"We're trying to save it. It's a mixture of saltwater marsh and freshwater wetland. It's the least Columbia can do. We don't have a hope of salvaging the parking lot where the potshards came from."

Mozzie wouldn't get any arguments from him on that. Pilings were already being driven. Steel beams, cement trucks—that parking lot was a goner.

"The 'Save Our Marsh' forces will prevail, particularly after the prayers we'll raise at Mabon," Mozzie predicted.

Dean smiled ruefully. Nothing seemed to faze Mozzie. He was the polar opposite of Bobby who tended to take the doom-is-at-hand view of almost anything that crossed their way.

"I wouldn't be at all surprised that Weewillmeku is seeking vengeance for the rape of the wetlands," Mozzie warned darkly. "There has to be a reason why all of a sudden it's making an appearance after hundreds of years."

"My bet is that Willy turns out to be a human," Dean said. "Some dick of a crazed criminal who wants to spread terror. That's what Peter believes, and this time I think he's right."

"As long as we're here, we should check out the Lenape caves Mozzie told us about," Sam suggested.

That was fine by Dean. They had plenty of time before the ritual would begin.

"Can you manage without me?" Mozzie asked. "I promised I'd help set up the altar."

"Sure," Dean said, waving his map at him. "The trail's well marked."

He and Sam spent an hour exploring the rock tumbles on the hills of the forested park. Mozzie had told them that the Lenape used the forest as a seasonal camp before settlers came to Manhattan. They'd excavated caverns to keep cool in summer.

When Dean clambered out of one of the shallow caves, he paused for a moment to scan the sky through the towering oaks which lined the slope. It was hard to believe they were in New York City.

He heard scrabbling sounds behind him and turned around. Sam winced at the hand Dean offered to help him climb out of the cave but accepted the assist. That spoke volumes. Dean tried not to focus on how labored Sam's breathing was from what should have been an easy hike. He looked happy. Dean could hold off raining on his parade.

"Mozzie told me the caves were used for centuries," Sam said, placing his hands on his knees as he caught his breath. "Arrowheads, flint axes, and pieces of pottery have been found inside."

"But no pictographs."

"No, nothing relevant to Weewillmeku. The caves are interesting but the only evidence we found is of the homeless finding shelter there. No leech-spirits."

Dean nodded. "The lore says Willy lives in the water. There's no mention of him living in caves." He glanced up at the sky. "Sunset's almost here. You wanna go to the Mabon ritual? Maia would like the company."

Sam eyed him suspiciously. "What will you do?"

Dean shrugged. "Patrol, and don't start on me. You can't accompany me. You don't have the endurance and you know it."

Sam let out an exasperated huff but didn't argue. He couldn't with the truth smacking him on the head.

As Sam trudged glumly beside him back to the field, he had that frustrated look Dean knew so well. He was kicking himself about letting others down. Dean had been surprised that Sam admitted his condition to Maia, although the dude really had no choice. She couldn't have missed his weight loss. And something good might come from it. She said she'd try to find out more information about Astrena. Dean knew he was grabbing at straws, but surely one of them was attached to something tangible. Didn't Scooby-Doo always discover something? Why couldn't their lives be more like Scooby-Doo?

"The murders, the sightings, the howls—they've all been near Columbia by the Hudson River," Sam said. "Wouldn't that be the most productive area to search?"

"Patrol Riverside Drive? It's a long shot we'd find anything."

"We've faced worse. We could patrol in the car after the ceremony. You can't object to me going along with you in the Impala."

He had a point, and there was no reason to hang around afterward. Mozzie could return with Chloe and Maia. "I'll keep watch on the Harlem River while you go to the ritual," Dean said, compromising. "One of us should be present to monitor the situation. You give me a call if you see anything." Sam didn't argue. There'd been no sightings in the park, but it was close enough to the river that a threat was plausible. In such a large group, Dean didn't fear an attack. All the reports of zombies had been of lone individuals. But it gave Sam something semi-useful to do.

As they approached the Impala, Dean began scanning the water once more. The sun was setting. Visibility was deteriorating by the minute . . .  A shadow caught his notice. He stopped to stare at it.

"See something?" Sam asked excitedly.

Dean nodded and squinted. "Those dark ridges close to the shore. Do they look off to you?"

"Maybe waves from someone swimming underwater?"

Dean sprinted forward. Damn. All their weapons were in the trunk of the car. What if this was Willy? What he would give for a pair of binoculars right now. The wave pattern appeared to be heading for the marsh close to the sports complex.

Sam was lagging far behind but Dean couldn't worry about that now. He kept his eyes fixed on the water. The waves came from the west—the direction of the Hudson River. Close to the boathouse, the waves parted and a shape began to emerge.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"All I can tell you is that it looked to me like the Jolly Gray Giant and instead of a smirk it had an open leech mouth." Dean paused to frown at Chloe. "No need to roll your eyes. This is why you'll never catch me writing novels."

Chloe sighed and tried to picture a bald-headed, musclebound torso rising out of the waves.

Mozzie and Janet had returned to the inn with her, Peony, and Maia to raise a final toast to Mabon. Instead they were gathered in the sitting room, listening spellbound to Dean's tale. Peony had suggested using the room which could be closed off so guests wouldn't overhear, and it was a wise precaution.

"By the time I caught up with Dean, Weewillmeku had already disappeared," Sam said glumly. "I never saw it."

"Are you sure that's what it was?" Janet asked.

Dean nodded. "I got a good view of his face. Who else would have a sucker mouth? After he sank back into the water, I lost him."

"We stayed around but he never reappeared," Sam added. "Did you hear any howls?"

"A few," Mozzie said. "They were coming from the south and sounded a long distance away."

"Did anything strange go on during the celebration?" Dean asked.

Peony surveyed them a moment before answering. "The spirits were restless at Mabon."

Chloe winced mentally as Maia stared at Peony with a shocked look on her face. Chloe had explained Peony's psychic ability to Maia but this was her first time to experience it.

"It was after we performed the drum circle," Peony said. "I could hear the whispers of the Lenape. They came to lament what has happened to their land."

Mozzie nodded emphatically as if he'd heard them too. "We should have expected it. I don't suppose we could get the spirits to rise up in support of the marsh, but I know they would if they could."

"But they weren't the only spirits about," Peony cautioned. "I felt another—a presence much more ancient. It was as if our collective energy was being sucked into the heavens."

"Could it have been Weewillmeku?" Sam asked, his brow furrowing.

Peony shook her head slowly as she considered for a moment. "I don't think so. With Native American spirits, the colors and scents are of the earth. What I sensed came from the stars." She shrugged. "It's possible I was mistaken. Perhaps it was caused by the music."

"Angela had brought along a group of folk musicians who will play at the festival this weekend," Chloe explained." The music sounded medieval, but I'm no expert. The drums were particularly striking."

"The musicians were playing the bodhran," Maia supplied. "It's a traditional Irish drum. The music was based on Irish folk melodies. There were also Irish harps, flutes, and bagpipes. I asked Angela about the group and she said they specialize in early Celtic music."

Chloe looked at her with surprise. She hadn't realized Maia was into folk music. She and Angela should get along well. Maia had stuck close to her and Peony throughout the ritual. Her sister Electra was also there but Maia kept her distance. That struck Chloe as being rather odd. Electra had been quite friendly when she chatted with coven members before the ceremony, and Chloe had always found her easy to talk to. There was a significant age difference between the sisters—ten years or more—which could account for it.

After Mozzie and Janet left, Sam and Dean took off to patrol by car. Chloe planned to return to the grimoire.

"Sam told me about your search for a potion," Maia said. "Perhaps I can help." She added in a lower voice, "I need to do something."

"How are you on orchids?" Chloe asked. "A Japanese expert wrote about how Greek orchids were used in various spells, but he gave no specifics. I'd hoped an herbal by Harriet Beaufort would provide the answer. So far, though, I haven't had any luck. Identifying the plants has been difficult and there aren't any spells which appear relevant."

"When I was a child, we spent our summers in Greece. Electra and I both have Greek orchids at home."

"Perhaps the descriptions will mean something to you." Chloe went over to the bookcase and removed _Airmid's Garden_ from the drawer.

Maia eyed it curiously. "May I see the book?"

Chloe unfastened the clasps and opened it to a page of illustrations.

Instead of checking out the description, Maia closed the book before Chloe could stop her and began studying the binding.

Now what? Chloe panicked for a moment as she tried to figure out how to handle it. Perhaps she could explain that the clasps required a special touch. That was true in a sense and better than admitting that Maia would need to be a Beaufort witch to open them. Chloe hadn't told Maia anything about her ancestry. After all, they'd only been friends for a few months and up to a few days ago Chloe hadn't suspected that having a distant ancestor for a witch had any direct bearing on her. Maia had just found out about Dean and Sam being hunters. She might not be ready to hear about Chloe's unusual family tree.

Oblivious to Chloe's churning emotions, Maia stroked the title with her hand. "Airmid . . ." She pronounced the name softly, giving it a breathy lilt and rolling the _r_. She sounded like the recording Chloe had heard on how to pronounce the word. Did Maia speak Irish or was that the Greek way of pronouncing it?

"A curious name, isn't it?" Chloe said, forcing her tone to be casual. If Maia would just set down the book, Chloe could reclaim it and open it once more without her suspecting anything was wrong. "She was the Irish goddess of healing," Chloe added, hoping to distract her. "Some believe she was a historic figure, perhaps a druidess. The ancient druids were supposed to have magical powers. Airmid was reputed to be an expert in the healing properties of herbs. Let's hope she can help Sam and Neal."

Maia nodded but her attention was still on the grimoire. Chloe watched with dread as her hand moved toward the top clasp. Effortlessly she snapped both clasps open. Chloe let out a gasp before she could stop herself.

Startled, Maia stared at her. "Did I do something wrong?"

Chloe's first thought was not to admit to anything, but Sam worked on the book, too. He was bound to comment on it. Wouldn't it be better to say something now?

The door opened and Peony walked in. "Would you two like a glass of red currant wine?  Maia, you haven't tried my latest—" She stopped when she saw Maia's hand on the book.

"She opened it," Chloe blurted even as she felt her face redden. Maia must think she was out of her mind.

"Shouldn't I be able to?" Maia asked. "What's going on?"

"Oh my, that's really quite extraordinary." Peony placed the tray of glasses on the table and sat down. "Watch what happens when I try." She took the grimoire from Maia, fastened the clasps, then tried to open them with the expected results. "This book has been protected by a spell which ensures that only members of the author's bloodline can open it."

Bewildered, Maia looked first at Peony then Chloe. "I don't understand. Chloe, are you related to Harriet Beaufort?"

"Apparently. Mozzie researched my family tree for me. I'd already traced my ancestry back to Bridget Bishop—"

"The Salem witch?" Maia asked, looking shocked.

Chloe nodded. "My grandfather moved to Nebraska from Massachusetts, and I've known about the connection for a while. But that was as far back as I'd gone. Mozzie's been helping me research my family tree. He discovered that Bridget was born in Ireland. Her maiden name was Beaufort. The Beaufort name originated in England in the fourteenth century, but one of the first Beauforts moved to Ireland and married an Irish woman, so it's certainly possible Harriet and I share a common ancestor."

"And the grimoire proves it," Peony declared. "Maia, are you aware of any Irish blood in your family?"

"Perhaps." Maia hesitated for a moment, looking absently at the book cover. "I don't know who my ancestors are. Electra's parents adopted me from an orphanage when they lived in England. I'd been found as a baby at the entrance to a London hospital with no identification. The Stavrous were very kind. They treated me as if I was their flesh and blood."

Chloe tried to picture herself in Maia's place, with no knowledge of her past. Although Chloe was an only child, she had plenty of aunts and uncles. Chloe reached over and grasped Maia's hand. "We could be distant cousins."

"More than likely," Peony agreed. "I don't know how else to explain it."

Maia broke into a radiant smile. "You're the only blood relative I've met. I'm so glad it's you."

Peony beamed at both of them. "We need to toast to that." She passed around the glasses of ruby-red wine.

Chloe raised her glass. "How appropriate that it looks a little like blood. Here's to you, cousin!"

Maia broke into a radiant smile as she clinked glasses with Peony and Chloe. "To family and friends!"

The red currant wine was bright with the taste of berries and packed a surprisingly big wallop—an auspicious symbol for their friendship. Peony's face was as pink as her cardigan, and Chloe suspected it wasn't only because of the wine. She had a big heart and appeared to revel in her role of Auntie to the two of them. The feeling was mutual. Chloe seldom got to see her own relatives, and from the way Maia was acting, she was ready to adopt both Chloe and Peony on the spot.

"Like Chloe, you may have inherited your interest in flowers from your forbears," Peony suggested.

"I always thought I'd acquired it from Lena Stavrou," Maia confided. "She was Electra's grandmother and passionate about Greece's wildflowers. When we were children, we used to stay at her villa outside Athens in the summer. I have a book on wildflowers at home which has been passed down in the Stavrou family. It's really more of a field guide—handwritten notes and drawings collected over many generations. It might help us identify the plants in Harriet's book. There are some poems in the book as well. At least, I assumed that's what they were. Now I wonder if they could possibly be spells."

Maia offered to fetch it from New Haven the following morning. Chloe sensed that she didn't want to leave Sam alone at night. Chloe had believed that Sam was stable for the moment, but Maia acted as if his life was threatened. It was understandable. She'd only found out about the curse on Wednesday. In any case, there probably weren't any more trains leaving for New Haven till the next day.

Maia was better off delaying the trip for her own sake as well. How safe was it to be outside at night? In light of the recent murder, Columbia and the neighborhood associations had all issued alerts for the public to be especially vigilant. Chloe's thoughts went to Dean and Sam, patrolling the neighborhood. She wished she knew if they'd found anything.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"They discovered a zombie who was running toward the campus on 118th Street," Neal said, tossing his rubber band ball into the air, "but it ducked into an alleyway and they lost it. Dean figures it slipped down a manhole cover."

Peter swatted Neal's feet off his desk. The rubber band ball, the feet on the desk, they were both running jokes which these days Neal played with greater frequency. His justification was that they helped Peter relax. What with the zombies, a leech-man running amok, Neal's bondage to Astrena, and the Mansfelds on the loose, Peter had so much to stew about, the worry lines on his forhead were threatening to become permanent.

The news about Weewillmeku had spread throughout the team, but Hughes advised against informing anyone else until and if there was clear evidence. That didn't keep the bullpen from joking about Willy, Manhattan's version of the Loch Ness Monster.

"Are they sure it was a zombie?" Peter challenged. "How do you recognize a zombie if you run into one?"

"Good question. That's what I asked Mozzie. Sam told him there are several different types of zombies and the ganking method is different for each one."

"Ganking?" Peter repeated, narrowing his eyes. "If you're going to use hunter lingo at the Bureau, you better supply the team a glossary."

Neal shrugged. "With the type of foe we're facing, the term is appropriate. Sometimes it's a stake through the heart, or it could be a silver bullet. Who knows what's deadly to Lenape leech-zombies? Firewater maybe? Mozzie said their gait is odd. A distinctive awkward lope." Neal got up and demonstrated the shuffle, holding his arms out like boards and pacing stiff-legged around Peter's office.

Peter snorted. "You look like a bad imitation of Frankenstein."

"That's not my fault. I'm simply imitating what Mozzie did. Of course, the most obvious clue is the leech mouth." Neal opened his mouth wide, forming a gaping circle and tilted his head to one side just as Jones knocked on the frame of the open door.

He took one startled look at him and formed an _X_ with his hands. "Back off, demon scum!"

Neal faked a lunge, but stopped before Jones got any ideas about retaliation.

"Simmer down, leech-zombie!" Peter ordered, trying to sound stern through his laughter. Mission accomplished. The worry lines were gone.

"More zombies I take it?" Jones asked.

Neal filled him in. "Did you hear anything about the missing students?"

"That's why I came by. Quint Worland, Travis's friend, thinks he saw the same man he'd spotted earlier talking with the first missing person. I'm going to Columbia to interview Quint this afternoon." He turned to Neal. "I can give you a lift home."

"Good idea," Peter said, before Neal could respond. "Neal, you're supposed to be home anyway, working on that Renoir forgery."

A sensitive subject. He'd much rather be at work, away from thoughts of Astrena, but he didn't want to admit it. "Thanks, I could use the extra time to get ready for my date."

"Where are you taking Bianka tonight?" Jones asked.

"We're going back to Riffs. She likes the music and the dancing. I intend to wear her out so she won't be interested in other games afterward."

"Don't count on it," Jones warned.

"I haven't staged an interruption yet," Peter said. "You want me to be the one to call you?"

"Sure. Make it around ten. That will be late enough for me to convince her how passionate I am without getting into trouble." Electra had called him in the morning and invited him to an art gallery reception that evening. It would have made an ideal excuse for Bianka, who would have readily understood and commended him for taking advantage of the opportunity. But then Bianka would have still wanted to see him afterward.

Electra didn't appear to mind when he mentioned having other plans. She would be attending the festival and they'd likely see each other there. An assistant was bringing books from the bookstore in New Haven to be sold in the Wicca tent. Electra suggested taking a break to discuss art, and Neal was inclined to accept the offer. She was an expert on the Impressionists. She could be on Goya as well.

**Hotel Plaza Athénée. That evening.**

Electra sighed as she rolled the dinner cart outside the entrance to her suite. The cuisine couldn't make up for the humiliation of being rejected by Neal yet again.

She was in a foul mood and she knew it. It shouldn't have been this way. She'd been prepared to be magnanimous once Neal accepted her invitation. He'd had enough of a lesson. She'd rein back Scarbo, lighten up on feeding off him, perhaps even allow him several more years of productivity.

But no, this was his fault. The ingratitude. The boy was such a disappointment. Lacking the creativity to develop his own style, he was forever copying the works of others. She'd bent over backwards, excusing the Monet he'd painted at Jenny Jump State Park as a mere amusement, but Scarbo had reported a long list of other copies, including works by Vermeer, Degas, and Matisse.

She'd never met anyone who transformed from one artist to another so readily. She'd renewed her acquaintance of Van Gogh and Goya through him. For a brief moment, she'd been tempted to make him her instrument to savor the delights of other artists who had long ago succumbed to her. Dante Gabriel Rossetti, for instance. How she'd enjoyed being his muse. What would Neal produce as the Pre-Raphaelite master?

But no, he was too inappreciative. His days of mocking her would soon end.

Electra checked her coiffure in the mirror. She had no idea what one wore to a rock club but had opted to jazz up her suit with a lace camisole shell. Jeremy was the model son. Crowley believed he had the best potential of all the pure-blood vampire princes, and she'd grown to concur with his assessment. She hoped a visit would calm her outrage.

With a snap of her fingers, Electra transported to Jeremy's office upstairs at Riffs.

Jeremy turned his head away from the computer monitor when she materialized. "Mother, I'm honored." The calm coldness of his baritone quieted her overheated emotions.

Crowley was lounging on Jeremy's magenta velvet chaise lounge, a glass of Scotch in his hand. Electra graced him with an approving nod when he stood up and bowed at her arrival. Crowley was an expert at the art of groveling.

She turned to her pure-blood. "I haven't visited you in a while, my darling." She wasn't about to admit she was bored and lonely. "How are our affairs progressing?"

Jeremy strode over and kissed her cheek. "You'll be pleased. May I offer you a drink? He glanced at a row of crystal decanters on the cocktail cart. "I have a sculptor, a pianist, and an up-and-coming novelist."

"The pianist will do," she said, her mood improving by the second. She took a seat next to Crowley.

Jeremy poured a generous amount of blood into a snifter and gave it to her. "Drasko attended to this one personally."

Drasko was Crowley's lieutenant. Originally from Slovakia, he'd been turned as a college student in Heidelberg. He now ran the identification theft operation for Crowley. Drasko was young and attractive. He'd developed into an excellent campus recruiter.

Crowley had convinced her to go along with what he called the Crowley Doctrine. It consisted of culling out the common fang riffraff and replacing them with a few highly skilled and educated vampires. Some specialized in computer hacking. Others were artists and musicians who worked the college and art scenes to supply Electra with blood.

Crowley's approach had been a triumph. By reducing the number of vampires to the bare minimum, the chance of discovery was remote. Maintaining strict discipline over their activities ensured a focused operation.

As Electra reclined on the chaise lounge, sipped the blood of a truly promising pianist, and listened to Jeremy's report, her spirits lifted. He was as ruthless as her. Unlike Lutar, no infatuation would ever cloud his decision-making.

Her eyes drifting around the room, she glanced at the bank of surveillance monitors displaying the club below. One of the cameras was aimed at the stage. She froze when she saw who was singing. Neal, in skintight leather pants and an open-collared shirt, was playing an acoustic guitar while crooning lovesick lyrics.

"What's the name of that song?" she demanded, pointing at the monitor.

A half-smile flitted across Jeremy's face when he saw Neal on the monitor. He listened for a moment. "'Wicked Game.' "

How dare he? He should be singing to her, not to the trollops in the audience making moon eyes at him. "Who's he with?"

Jeremy performed a quick scan of the monitors. "Bianka's in the crowd. She must be his date."

"Has anyone been able to identify the other blonde he's been seen with?"

"Not yet," Crowley said, "but rest assured neither one can compare to your beauty."

She nodded, somewhat mollified. Crowley had arranged for Bianka's mugging. She could still taste the joy she'd felt from drinking her blood. Thanks to Crowley's thoughtfulness, she was able to torment the child whenever she liked.

It had been a delightful surprise to discover Bianka was an artist. That made Electra's feeding all the more pleasurable. Like Neal, Bianka focused on imitating the works of others. But whereas Neal could morph into another artist's persona, she remained on the outside, a mere copyist. It would be no loss to the world of art when Electra consumed her.

When Neal finished his song, he left the stage. Electra strode from one monitor to another, following his movements. He stopped at a table where Bianka was smiling a greeting at him. Electra felt her lips curl upward. She was going to enjoy this.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Neal slid into a chair next to Bianka. "Did you like the song?" he said in a low, throaty murmur as he nuzzled her ear. He knew he was treading on dangerous ground. His plan was to advance the steam factor at Riffs but delay leaving the club till it was time for Peter to call him.

She placed her hands on his face and drew him even closer. Her eyes were smoldering coals. "I promise never to break your heart like the girl in the song."

When she pulled out of the kiss, Neal suggested they dance. The guitarist who'd followed him was singing "Breakaway."  Bianka's hands were all over him. If she wanted to break away from the game she was playing, she was showing no sign of it. The kiss they'd interrupted at the table recommenced with even greater intensity.

Neal had established a mental list of limits beyond which he wouldn't go. Bianka gave no indication of having made a similar list. He was feeling more lightheaded by the moment. Was this the curse acting on him, or his own feelings about the con? Whatever it was, his nausea was steadily increasing. Had the time come for the mono excuse?

Suddenly Bianka pulled back and swallowed hastily. Her face bleached of color as she looked at him with anguished eyes. "I'm sorry . . ." Gulping convulsively, she quickly placed a hand over her mouth. With one last agonized look, she fled the dance floor.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

When Neal arrived back at the loft, he peeled off his jacket and collapsed on the couch. Never had the quiet comfort of his quarters seemed so appealing. The nausea was gone but had left him exhausted. After a few minutes, he summoned up the energy to retrieve a glass of water. Dragging himself back to the comfort of the couch, he pulled out his cell phone.

After one ring, Peter answered. He must have had the phone right next to him. "You can relax," Neal assured him. "I'm alone."

"I'm not due to call you for an hour. What happened?"

"Bianka got sick."

"Again?"

"It looks like another bout of stomach flu. I don't think she ever fully recovered from the first case."

"This is karma for her trying to con you. It will give you a good break. Once she starts to feel better, you can claim you came down with the same thing."

"Agreed." Neal was beginning to feel better. No need to mention the brief episode to Peter. He was worried enough as it was.

"You're at home, right?"

"Yeah, just got back."

"That's good. Stay there. There's been another murder. The body was found a few hours ago on 135th Street near Riverside Drive. There was no identification on the victim, but he appears to have been a vagrant."

"Leech marks?"

"Yeah, I'll give you the details tomorrow after the fencing competition." Peter paused. "You're still planning to participate, right?"

There was a note of uncertainty in Peter's voice that Neal took pains to allay. "I'll be there," he said quickly, injecting an extra note of confidence. Aidan was counting on him. If he stayed up late tonight, he might be able to avoid a recurrence of the Marquesa.

 

* * *

_Notes: Has Maia truly reformed? She certainly seems to be trying. Now she's learned she's related to Chloe and has forsaken blood for Peony's red currant wine. Maia is an example of an original character who didn't like the storyline I'd designed for her and took matters into her own hands. I wrote about her metamorphosis in this week's blog post: "[Back to the Cauldron](https://pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com/2018/10/back-to-cauldron.html)."_

_A reader wrote about calling Neal's Columbia friends Caffrey's Crew. It's a great term for them. Neal's been depending on them for help with Bianka. Now the Winchesters are on campus as well. Something tells me this won't be their last visit._

_Next Wednesday is Halloween, but in Neal's world it's late September. That won't stop him from getting out his costume though. Next week's chapter features the Renaissance Festival and you're all invited. It's a real shame that Electra's also planning to attend. Chloe had assured Christie that only good witches would be in the Wicca tent. Oops._

_Happy 9th Anniversary, White Collar! October 23 was the date of the premiere episode._

_Blog: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation: [www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com](http://www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com)_   
_Chapter Visuals and Music: The Night Howls on the Hudson board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website:[www.pinterest.com/caffreycon](http://www.pinterest.com/caffreycon)_


	6. Renaissance Festival

**Sara's Apartment. September 24, 2005. Saturday evening.**

Sara clinked wine glasses with Neal. "I should send Bianka a thank you card. Yesterday I'd pictured myself dining alone—probably eating takeout in front of the TV while trying not to think about the two of you on a date. Instead, I get you for the entire evening." _And hopefully all night as well._

Neal's smile broadened. "I should sign my name to that card too."

He'd texted her late the previous day with the good news. She'd been so delighted to hear of Bianka's relapse that she even chanced going to Neal's fencing competition that morning. If anyone asked about her presence, she was prepared to explain that Keiko had asked to keep her company. Sara had become friends with Aidan and Richard during the U-boat con. Clearly, she was there to lend her support to all of them.

When Peter showed up, she reminded herself that, like the fencers, she couldn't lower her guard. She'd expected Travis but assumed he'd be much more interested in watching Richard's bouts than her. Peter was in a different category with nothing much escaping his sharp eyes, but Sara didn't think she'd given anything away.

This was her first time to watch Neal fence. He competed in saber, and to her eyes his performance was flawless. Normally Neal participated in épée as well, and from the way the team struggled, they could have used his help. Aidan and Richard were both aware of the health issues. Neal had already grumbled to her that Aidan insisted he take frequent breaks during practice sessions. And it had all worked out. There were some close moments, but the team eked out a victory. Last year they'd been undefeated. Aidan was hoping for an unprecedented second year.

During the bouts Neal didn't participate in, Sara paid more attention to him on the sidelines than the fencers. As he exchanged comments with the team members, she caught that look of longing. Soon he might not be able to compete at all.

When she and Neal decided to date in secret, she'd never anticipated the present situation. Their initial challenge had only been to conceal the truth from their friends. Now Neal was facing a potentially life-threatening challenge while continuing to deceive Bianka. Christie had warned him that if his condition continued to deteriorate, he'd have to enter the hospital for what could be a protracted stay. How could Sara possibly act as if she was "just a friend"?

"Is the wine acceptable?" Neal asked. "You seem a thousand miles away. I hope it wasn't the fish. If you come down with what Bianka has—"

She laughed. "That's not happening. And the flounder was exceptional." Neal had picked it up at the seafood market on the way over. She'd supplied a chanterelle frisée salad and lemon gnocchi courtesy of the gourmet takeout shop on Amsterdam Avenue. She now considered them her private chef when Neal wasn't available. Someday she'd learn to cook, but as long as that shop was around, it wouldn't be anytime soon.

"It's not the murder, I hope."

Sara shoved her concern deep within her. Neal needed her to be bright and positive. "No, but I'm surprised the police have been able to keep the leech wounds out of the news reports."

"It can't last much longer now that there's been a second murder with the same type of injury. I saw one of the tabloids is already blaring alerts about zombies in Morningside Heights. Fortunately for us, all zombie sightings have been at night. They won't hinder the festival. Have I mentioned how glad I am that I can go with you rather than Bianka?"

"Yes, about ten times at last count, and please continue! Since the entire Columbia crowd will be there, I'll simply be one of many friends."

He leaned across the dinette table, his blue eyes growing dark. "But with them I won't be sneaking away to a secluded spot. I have a detailed map, courtesy of Angela. There are several possibilities which look quite promising. Are you going to let me see your costume tonight?"

"Nothing doing. You'll have to wait for tomorrow. Besides you haven't described yours."

He gave her a wicked smile. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

Double entendres were reason enough to keep the Clueless con alive for a little while longer. Sara resolved to keep all dark thoughts buried deep.

She stood up to clear the table. "You cooked, so I'll wash. You'd mentioned that you wanted to call Bianka. This is as good a time as any."

"You don't mind?" Standing up, he took the plate from her and set it down on the table. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he pulled her close against his chest. His hands dropped lower as hers did. They slowly swayed to their own inner music as they kissed.

Reluctantly she stepped back. "Yes, I mind, but it's a necessary evil. Go ahead and call her so we won't have to think about her for the rest of the evening. You better use another room. Then she won't hear my kitchen clatter."

"I'll be in your bedroom, thinking of you throughout the call."

Sara raced through the dishes. Did Neal intend for her to eavesdrop? He'd left the door open. She took that as an open invitation.

A friend was letting Sara have the use of her apartment while she was on a teaching assignment in London. Sara had appropriated the second bedroom. There wasn't room for much more than a bed, nightstand, and dresser. The bed lacked a headboard but Sara used several overstuffed pillows as a substitute.

Neal had taken his shoes off and was flopped on top of the taupe comforter. He'd propped up a couple of extra pillows to recline against as he talked with Bianka. When he saw Sara in the doorway, he silently patted the mattress and waved her over. When she slid next to him, he shifted position to mask any additional sounds.

She laid her head on his shoulder. He began running his fingers through her hair as he professed his passion for Bianka.

"I know you're discouraged, but we'll make up for it on a future date."

Sara couldn't hear her reply, but Neal's commiserating sounds of sympathy led her to believe Bianka was describing her aches and pains. Was it so wrong to hope she was suffering horribly?

"Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?" he asked . . . "I'm at home. I don't mind at all." He flashed Sara a mischievous smile and began singing "Wicked Game" into the phone.

While he sang, Sara slipped her hands under his shirt and began massaging his back. He'd dropped several pounds since the previous weekend. She knew he was aware of the issue and was consuming protein bars and shakes to try to make up for it. She stopped herself. No dark thoughts tonight.

When he finally rang off, she said, "Do you know how sexy it is to hear you talk dirty on the phone?"

He began unbuttoning her blouse. "I know of something even hotter."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

The buzzing of the alarm on his phone woke Neal up. He'd placed it under the pillow in the hopes it wouldn't disturb Sara, and it worked. She was still asleep, spooned next to his back. It was so tempting to stay in bed. But the clarions were sounding. The Battle of Shrewsbury would commence in a few short hours.

No nightmares bothered the woman beside him. There was enough light coming in from the window that he could make out her face, and she was smiling in her sleep. He hoped that was because of yesterday evening. Since June was away visiting her daughter, he'd chanced spending the night.

Sara stirred. He gave her a kiss before her eyes opened.

"Mmm." Her smile widened and she wrapped an arm around his neck to pull him down. The Battle of Shrewsbury could wait.

But the reprieve didn't last long. As soon as Sara remembered what was on tap, she yanked the covers off. They had a full day ahead where they could be together as friends and then Neal could spend another night with her.

He left to change into his costume at the loft. Mozzie and Janet were picking him up to go to the festival. Maggie Feng had also offered to chauffeur festival participants in her florist van. Sara, Keiko, and Aidan would go with her. Angela and Michael were probably already at the park.

Since Bianka wasn't attending, Neal decided to leave his guitar at home. He'd originally intended to use it as an excuse to slip away and see Sara. There was no need now. When they arrived at the park, Mozzie and Janet left to put the final touches on the "Save the Marsh" display next to the Wicca tent. Their supplies were already in place. They'd spent the previous day promoting the cause at the Medieval Festival. Members of Peony's coven were collecting signatures for a petition urging Columbia to turn the marsh into a wetlands preserve.

The battleground was located in a field below the Cloisters. By the time Neal showed up, the White Collar team was already in position. Dean and Chloe had been welcomed as fellow fighters for the event. Jones's costume had a distinct Klingon feel to it while Dean looked like he'd stepped off the _Braveheart_ set. Diana and Chloe had seemingly bonded as Amazon warriors.

Neal didn't have much time to talk with Peter as the organizers were reviewing battle instructions. Relegated to the sidelines, he consoled himself by taking pictures. He was touched when Peter volunteered to pose for him.

"I never thought I'd see you looking so happy in a costume."

"It's actually a Viking outfit," Peter murmured conspiratorially, "but I left the horned helmet at home."

"Saving it for a Viking LARP?"

"Let me know if you hear of any."

"Do you mean it? You know I'll light up the internet looking for one."

"It has to be in New York," he quickly added, squelching Neal's plans to scour Scandinavian sites. "This leather doublet is quite authentic." He cast a dubious glance at his spear. "I don't think any self-respecting Viking would carry one of these, but we all have to make sacrifices."

"I wish I could fight with you. Next year if it's held, you'll have to join me in a rematch."

"Count on it. Either that or at the Viking LARP you're going to find. This is just a warm up. I hear the warrior tent will be well supplied with Mozzie's excellent honey mead after the battle. That's one part you don't need to skip out on."

Neal didn't comment, glancing down at his minstrel garb. He felt out of sync with the others. Next year couldn't come soon enough. He'd spotted Sam standing on the sidelines, likely feeling the same way. When Peter left to rejoin his battalion, Neal grabbed a couple of hand drums and went over to see him.

 Sam looked at the instrument warily. "I've never played a drum."

"What's to learn? You just bang it. And think how proud Maia will be of you. I saw her sitting in the grandstands with Elizabeth."

While they waited for the troops to get into formation, Sam told Neal about a book on herbal remedies Maia had retrieved from New Haven. "They were up late last night trying to match descriptions of plants. Chloe is more optimistic than I've seen her in a long time. She believes they may be finally on the right track."

The previous day, he and Sam had compared notes about their dreams. Neal wasn't surprised that Sam had also seen Scarbo. Bobby had heard of the demon. He said several of the Greek gods supposedly had minions of one sort or another.

"Maybe it's the girlfriend influence, but since Maia's been here, I haven't seen any more of that demon," Sam said. "How are you doing?"

"No painting or demons for me last night either." He'd like to think that was because of Sara. He hoped to have confirmation tonight. "Has Dean made any progress with Weewillmeku?"

"He patrolled last night. No sign of a leech-man but he spotted a possible zombie." Sam frowned. "He lost it in a back alley. If I'd been along—as I should have been— maybe he could have caught it."

"Late yesterday another murder victim was discovered. Peter told me about it just now. I wonder if there's a connection. The corpse was found near Inwood Hill Park."

"Same M.O.?"

Neal nodded. "And that's not all. More and more students are reporting zombie sightings. On the plus side, there haven't been any other reports of missing persons."

"Weewillmeku could be targeting vagrants, and we're not getting a true picture," Sam cautioned.

"Everyone, take your positions!" shouted an armor-clad warrior through a battered bullhorn. "The battle is about to begin!"

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

El could have predicted they'd arrive at the festival in advance of most everyone else. Base case, her early riser of a husband never slept in. And on a day he was expected to fight the Battle of Shrewsbury, she wasn't surprised to be awakened when it was still pitch black outside. Not that she'd utter a word of reproach. Peter hadn't groaned once at the costumes which were waiting for them to slip on.

She and Janet had eased the pain by claiming the outfits were designed for a Viking warrior and his wife. El was wearing a long gown in amethyst and moss-green. It was sufficiently low cut that any woman in Scandinavia would have frozen in it. Peter's look wasn't extreme. The leather jerkin and loose leggings were comfortable. He was leaving the horned helmet at home, but El already had ideas for it. Halloween was next month. Diana had written that she and Peter wore Viking costumes for a Halloween party in Arkham. The next speakeasy party would be in late October, giving her plenty of time to plan.

But today was all about the Renaissance, and there were fringe benefits to their early arrival. El was able to snare a prime location on the bleachers to watch the battle. Peter immediately took off to join his fellow warriors, the first contingent of which had already arrived. It wasn't long before Chloe and Diana showed up at the bleachers with Maia and Christie in tow. The contrast was a startling one. Chloe and Diana looked like Elizabethan Amazons in their padded vests and breeches. Christie and Maia were both in long Renaissance gowns. Maia's was particularly ethereal in lavender velvet. Diana and Chloe stayed just long to drop them off before leaving to join the larpers.

"Will you be providing medical help on the battleground?" El asked Christie.

"I hope that won't be required," she said with a laugh, "but I'm ready if they need it. I'm volunteering at the medical tent. When the festival organizers discovered I'm a doctor, they asked if I'd mind staffing an emergency medical service area. So now I have a little blue neon EMS light in addition to my Da Vinci diagrams and leech jars."

"Leeches? You've heard about . . ." El didn't know if she should mention it aloud. None of the papers had mentioned leech wounds.

"Diana told me," Christie assured her. "It's an odd coincidence. Bloodletting was so commonly used in the Renaissance, I felt we needed to include them, but all mine are small and harmless." She turned to Maia. "Has Dean been able to find the creature he saw?"

"Not so far, but he's been patrolling every night."

"Will your sister be here today?" El asked.

Maia nodded. "She brought a selection of books about the occult to sell in the Wicca tent. Chloe and I are slated to help there, too. We intend to promote witches as a force for good. During the Early Renaissance, witches were considered healers."

"I saw your sister yesterday," El said. "She dropped in at our rehearsal for _Bell, Book and Candle_. She gave me tips about how to incorporate feline expressions into my performance. Electra pointed out that the heroine Gillian and her cat are much more in tune than most people realize. It's a subtle art of lounging like a cat—a slanted gaze, an arched back. Her comments were a revelation."

"I sympathize with Gillian's quandary," Maia said. "In the movie, she says witches can't love. Surely that's wrong."

"But that helps add to the dramatic tension. Gillian has to become human to truly experience love." El chuckled. "Electra was funny in lamenting about all that Gillian was giving up. I must admit she made a strong case."

Maia shook her head but didn't say anything. She looked very much the romantic princess in love with her fair knight Sam. El hoped it would work out for them. From her understanding of the hunter life, Sam faced worse challenges than any Sir Galahad had to face.

"May I join you?"

El turned her head to see Sara approach in a stunning crimson gown.

El beckoned for her to sit beside her. "You're not fighting with Keiko and Diana? I thought all your kung fu group would."

"I decided to sit this one out," Sara said. "I'll perform in the dance demonstration later today. This way I won't need to make any wardrobe changes."

Sara's remark was perplexing. Diana had told the Arkham Round Table that Sara loved costumes. It was one reason Diana had included a Halloween dinner date in one of her stories. Wouldn't Sara have enjoyed the opportunity to wear different looks?

El introduced her to Maia, and they were soon deep into a conversation on gown designs. Janet had supplied Christie and Sara's attire. Christie was wearing a peasant look to enhance her image as a Renaissance healer. Maia said her gown came from England where she'd been an undergrad.

A flurry of drumbeats, trumpet calls, and wild cheers announced the arrival of the troops. El saw Neal and Sam standing off to one side with several other musicians. Sam was clothed as a warrior even though he wasn't fighting. With his long hair, his outfit seemed particularly authentic. Neal was wearing a tunic in shades of plum and cranberry with a full-sleeved white shirt and dark breeches. He looked every bit the handsome minstrel. After the fanfare ended, a history professor introduced the Battle of Shrewsbury to the spectators.

"There are Sam and Neal!" Maia called out and stood up to wave. "They're coming our way."

Maia's eyes were only on Sam. A smile was on her mouth, but her eyes looked worried. El glanced at Sara and was surprised to see her studying Neal with almost the identical look of concern.

El hadn't seen Sam recently, but he looked thinner than she remembered. Neal's weight loss was even more striking. Peter had warned her about it. How could he have shed pounds so quickly?

As a member of the U-boat con, Sara had been kept informed of the cloud hanging over Neal. In retrospect, it may have been for the best that El and Henry's matchmaking efforts had gone nowhere. Now with Neal supposed to con Bianka, trying to maintain any kind of dating relationship with Sara would have been impossible. Neal had been guilty of over-protecting his former girlfriend. He might have tried to keep Sara at a distance too and this was a time he needed all his friends around him.

But if it hadn't been for his job and the curse, would he and Sara have gotten together? El's heart told her Sara's interest was more than that of a friend. She suspected Sara hadn't participated in the battle so that she'd be able to keep Neal company. Perhaps their matchmaking efforts were bearing fruit. Was Sara secretly pining for Neal but unable to say anything? Was she keeping her emotions hidden so he wouldn't distance himself from her?

Under the circumstances, there was nothing El could do, but her heart went out to Sara. She could feel trapped by circumstances beyond her control.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

The battle was a complete success as far as Neal was concerned. Although the history professors had initially intended it to be a historical reenactment, the larpers persuaded them to lighten up. From Neal's perspective, it was just a mob of enthusiastic warriors in costumes ranging from sci-fi and fantasy to Celtic to medieval, with a few Vikings—not just Peter— thrown in as well. Everyone seemed to have immense fun charging around with foam swords and spears.

Neal yelled himself hoarse, too. The White Collar irregulars were on the victorious royalist side. Henry Hotspur died an ignominious death. Neal swore that Diana had the most bloodcurdling screams of any of the warriors. He even caught Dean eyeing her with admiration.

As for Neal, how could he complain? He got to sit next to the most beautiful woman at the festival instead of having to pretend to be infatuated with Bianka.

Once the battle was over, everyone split off. Sara claimed she was ravenous from watching everyone else fight so they made a beeline to the tavern where they gorged themselves on barley and beef stew in bread bowl trenchers.

Sara's dance demonstration was scheduled for early afternoon which left them plenty of time to peruse the market and exhibits. Mixed in with the merchant stands were educational booths prepared by various university departments. The mechanical engineers had built models on how to storm castles.  The English and foreign language departments had their tents staffed with students dressed to portray authors from the period.

Later Sara and Neal strolled over to the music pavilion which had been set up west of the Cloisters. Angela had persuaded a few of Neal's distant Caffrey relatives to attend. They earned their livelihood off building folk instruments and performing folk music at Renaissance fairs throughout the country. Their ranks were supplemented by local instrument builders and students from the music department.

When they arrived at the pavilion, Neal noticed Sam and Maia were talking with a man by a display of harps.

"Let's go over and join them," Sara suggested.

The builder turned out to be a member of a historic instrument shop near Boston which specialized in period string instruments.

"Do you play?" Sara asked Maia.

"I learned how to play the lyre. It was often used by the Greeks to accompany poetry." Her fingers stroked the frame of a small harp on a stand. "When I was a child, I had a harp."

"This model is a Celtic lap harp," the builder said. "Would you like to try it?"

"You should," Sam urged. "I've never heard you play."

She blushed. "It's been so long," she murmured. "I'm sure I wouldn't be any good."

"That doesn't matter," Sara encouraged, "and I bet it will come back to you."

Several festival visitors had gathered around, eager to hear a demonstration. Maia took the harp, sat on a bench next to the builder, and began to strum it softly. The tune gradually took shape and Maia began to sing.

Neal was amazed at how good she was. When Maia went to Riffs with them, she hadn't mentioned she was a singer. Sam asked her to sing louder. The music conjured up misty moors and verdant hillsides. Neal recognized the tune as "Moon Cradle," a song his ex-girlfriend Fiona liked to perform. It was based on a poem by an Irish poet. Unlike Fiona, Maia was singing it in Irish. When she ended, she appeared dumbfounded by the applause which broke out.

"You need to buy that harp," Sam declared. "It was meant for you."

"Anyone who can sing that way in Irish needs a harp," Neal seconded.

She hesitated then a smile broke out. "I think I will."

"Where did you learn the language?" Sara asked.

"I've been researching the Celtic Greek connection for my doctorate. I've taught myself a few words."

She was far too modest. Neal didn't speak Irish but he'd heard it often enough to recognize the sounds, and Maia's accent sounded spot on. Sam was enthralled. Neal could picture Maia in a castle while Sam rode off to combat monsters. A Pre-Raphaelite image filled his mind, and he itched to paint it.

"Neal?" Sara's voice was tentative as she laid a hand on his arm. "Are you all right?"

"Sorry, I was thinking about a painting." Neal shook his head to free himself of artist cobwebs.

"Not the Marquesa I hope," she murmured.

"No, at least . . . " Surely that wasn't Astrena influencing him? He gave Sara a reassuring smile. "You caught me in an art moment." He glanced at his watch. "It's almost time for Angela's play. The theater is just north of here."

They left Maia and Sam with the builder and resumed walking along a lane crowded with festival goers. The assemblage of buildings making up the Cloisters was a harmonious blend of cloisters, tile roofs and bell tower perched on top of the hillside. It was easy to imagine they were on a pilgrimage to a medieval monastery.

As part of her doctorate program, Angela was working with a group of kids from a public elementary school this fall. She was refining a concept she'd developed over the summer where she produced musicals based on children's stories and fables. The kids learned how to play simple folk music instruments, and educational concepts were taught through the medium of music. For the festival, the kids were performing a version of Aesop's fable about the town mouse and the country mouse.

Henry's boyfriend Eric was a skilled carpenter and Angela had persuaded him to help construct the sets. Neal had planned to sit with him during the performance, but all he caught were a couple of glimpses of Eric working in the back with Angela and Michael. With Henry away on a business trip, she had apparently made it her personal mission to keep Eric from being lonely. Angela had inherited a full set of matchmaker genes from her grandmother Irene. So far, Neal had been spared because of Bianka, but Henry was fair game.

Sara would need to leave soon for the dance demonstration so they didn't dally after the show. On their way back, they browsed through the stalls in the market. There was a Renaissance jewelry vendor in particular which caught Sara's eye. When she fingered a necklace featuring a whimsical griffin holding a pearl in its claws, Neal fished for his wallet.

The symbolism of the creature, which combined the features of a lion and an eagle, was appealing. Klaus had given him the nickname of Lion Cub. Neal liked the idea of being compared to a cat but a cheetah was much more to his taste. This pendant showed the hindquarters of what could easily be a cheetah. In Diana's stories he'd called Sara a mockingbird, and if he squinted his eyes, the bird looked a little like the species.

"You need a necklace to wear with that dress," he declared. "Since I won't be dancing with you, I'm designating this fine fellow as my stand-in. He'll make sure your dance partner doesn't take liberties."

"Ah, you've heard about those licentious Elizabethan dances." She held up her hair so he could fasten the clasp. "No one better try, or I'll sic my griffin on them."

"What time should I show up for your performance?"

"We're holding a last-minute rehearsal backstage beforehand. I'd wait till three o'clock. That will give you a chance to visit the science tent."

"Excuse me." Neal turned around at the unfamiliar voice to see a man and a woman with a teenage girl standing next to them.

"Your costumes are beautiful," the woman said. "Are you performers?"

"Why yes we are!" Sara replied, her eyes lighting up. She tilted her head at Neal. "Should we give them a sample?"

What did Sara have in mind? They hadn't planned anything, but Neal seized the opportunity. "My pleasure," he said and made a sweeping bow to the girl. "My gentle lord and ladies, we are members of an acting troop, charged with reenacting Shakespeare's most famous lovers." He addressed the teen. "Would you like to make a request?"

She blushed and was tongue-tied for a response. Sara whispered something in her ear, and the girl's face brightened. "Rosalind and Orlando!"

Neal beamed. "Excellent choice!"

Sara made a deep curtsy. "This is from Act 4 of _As You Like It_." She stepped back from Neal and demanded, "Come, woo me, woo me, for now I am in a holiday humor, and like enough to consent. What would you say to me now, and I were your very, very Rosalind?"

"I would kiss before I spoke." He then drew close to make good on his words, lingering perhaps longer than Shakespeare intended, but the crowd appeared to love it. Some even asked them to repeat it so they could capture it on video.

Among the requests for an encore, someone called out, "Now do Beatrice and Benedick!"

 _Much Ado about Nothing_ was one of his favorites. Neal faced his beloved. "I do love nothing in the world so well as you. Is that not strange?"

Sara replied. "As strange as the thing I know not. It were as possible for me to say I loved nothing so well as you."

Any reply like that necessitated another prolonged kiss. When they broke off, Sara said with a laugh, "Now I really do need to run, good sir."

Neal wasn't worried about the cameras or the spectators. This was no different than the many other times they'd playacted a scene. A few friends had come out from the Wicca tent to watch and josh them. He'd seen Chloe and Electra in the crowd.

As they took their leave, he murmured, "Someday this won't be a con."

She whispered back, "Who says I didn't mean my words?" She gave him a glance which warmed his heart and made him wish more than ever he could dance with her that afternoon. She murmured in his ear, "Tonight you'll have to allow me to express my appreciation for this charming griffin. Be sure to bring your costume with you."

His imagination leaping to intriguing thoughts of Shakespeare in the Boudoir, Neal watched Sara stroll off before turning to survey the marketplace. He decided to buy a little something extra as a surprise for her. The Wicca tent was selling velvet herbal charm bags. He couldn't go amiss with a gris gris bag for protection.

Before Neal could act on the idea, a blast of ice suddenly swept over him. He clutched at a metal upright as the intensity of the cold robbed him of the ability to breathe. The world faded to black.

Dimly he heard a voice ask if he was okay.

No, he wasn't okay. A figure in blue ice formed in his mind. The tendrils of her long hair seized him like a thousand snakes, squeezing the life out of him. "Medic," he mumbled.

"Oh, you're a performer! You had me fooled!"

Someone clapped. "However did you achieve that effect?"

His knees buckled, his grasp slipping from the pole. "Medic tent . . ."

"Let's play along," someone urged.

He felt arms around him, lifting him up, helping him stagger into the tent before time slipped away.

 . . .

"Neal, can you hear me?"

He opened his eyes to see Christie's face over him. She smiled when he looked at her. "That's better. Don't try to sit up."

Unnecessary advice. He felt lightheaded and weak, but he could breathe again. Apparently Astrena had grown bored and was off torturing someone else. He was lying on a gurney in the emergency service area. A blood pressure cuff was on his arm. Pillows had been propped under his legs. "Did I pass out?"

She nodded. "In quite a dramatic fashion. Two men dragged you into the tent. They were convinced you were putting on a performance and wanted to stay around for me to apply leeches to you."

When he gulped, she quickly added, "Don't worry. You're only getting modern treatment." She glanced at the dial on the cuff. "Your blood pressure was extremely low. Sixty over forty-five. That's cause enough to lose consciousness. It's starting to come back up now. Did you experience any other symptoms?"

Before Neal could answer, Chloe walked into view. "Oh, you're awake. That's good news."

"How long was I out?"

"About ten minutes. I was helping Christie answer questions when you arrived. Dean called Peter. He's on his way."

If he'd been feeling better, he would have been dismayed at all the fuss his collapse had caused. But as it was, he simply nodded and relaxed back into the pillows. He was freezing even though he'd been covered with a blanket. "Do you have another blanket?"

Christie unfolded one and spread it over him. "You never answered my question about your symptoms. I've already written down sensitivity to the cold."

Neal looked at Chloe. "She was inside my head."

"Astrena?" she asked, startled.

"I'm sure of it." Neal described the vision he'd had and his inability to breathe.

"Your feeling of coldness and breathing issues are also symptoms of hypotension," Christie noted. She checked the dial on his cuff. "You're up to ninety over sixty now." She removed the pillows from under his legs. "Do you want to try to sit up?"

Neal used his arms to prop himself upright. He was grateful when Christie assisted by slipping more pillows behind his back.

"I hear we missed quite a performance."

Neal turned his head to see Peter and El standing at the entrance to the curtained-off cubicle. He appreciated that Peter kept his tone light.

"Sorry," he said, replying in kind. "No encores."

"Do you need to go to the hospital?" El asked worriedly.

"No," Neal said quickly before Christie could reply for him. "Astrena's left the building. I'll be fine."

"At the rate your blood pressure's coming back, there's no need to pack you off to the hospital," Christie agreed. "I'd like you to rest here for another half hour or so and then you can go home. No more festival activities for you, I'm afraid. And tomorrow I expect both you and Sam to report for physicals where you'll also pick up the Medic Alert bracelets I'll have ready for you." She frowned for a moment. "You shouldn't stay alone in the loft."

"C'mon, Christie. That's not necessary."

El rolled her eyes. "After what just happened, yes it is. And I know June is gone this week. You'll stay with us."

"I appreciate the offer but it's really not necessary. June's staff is still there. And I . . ."—Neal took a breath—"I'll ask Mozzie to stay in the loft with me. He doesn't sleep at night anyway."

"Has Sam experienced any sudden attacks like Neal just had?" Christie asked Chloe.

"Not to my knowledge, but I'll ask Maia. She's been keeping a careful eye on him. She said he's been sleeping better this week, but his stamina isn't improving."

"I'll bring our car around," Peter offered. "By the time I return, you'll probably be able to leave." When Neal started to object, he raised a hand. "Never argue with a Viking. We already saw Angela's play. That was the only other event which was high on our list."

But not on Neal's. He'd hoped to see Sara dance. El probably wanted to as well. No chance of that now. It wasn't any consolation that he didn't feel strong enough. When Peter departed, Christie turned the lights off and urged him to rest. He waited till El and Christie left the cubicle then texted Sara. Her performance was about to start, and he didn't attempt to call her. Their night of romance would have to be postponed.

 

* * *

_Notes: When Neal and Sara gave impromptu performances of romantic moments in Shakespeare, they didn't realize an evil witch in the Wicca tent was watching. Astrena's brand of malevolence is much more suited to Macbeth. Was watching Neal with Sara the final straw? Fortunately Neal has some powerful allies. Next week he receives help from an unexpected source._

_For this week's blog, I wrote about the witches circling around Neal and Sam. The post is called "[Double, double toil and trouble](https://pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com/2018/10/double-double-toil-and-trouble.html)."_

_Wishing all of you a Happy Halloween with only good witches knocking on your door!_

_Blog: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation: [www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com](http://www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com)_  
_Chapter Visuals and Music: The Night Howls on the Hudson board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website:[www.pinterest.com/caffreycon](http://www.pinterest.com/caffreycon)_


	7. Séance with a Shaman

**June's mansion. September 25, 2005. Sunday afternoon.**

"Don't fight me on this, Neal," Peter warned. "You know you're going to lose."

"No one's fighting anyone," El said soothingly. "Let's discuss this upstairs."

Neal eyed the pair of them. They were playing good Viking, bad Viking on him, and he didn't have a chance. Neal rode with them to June's after his ignominious collapse at the festival. Despite his assurance that he was fully recovered, they insisted on staying with him till Mozzie arrived.

The final insult was when they insisted he ride the service elevator upstairs like he was an invalid. Having their company was slight compensation. Neal would rather wallow by himself than inflict his dark mood on others.

When they entered the loft, Neal retreated into his closet to strip off his minstrel costume. He took much longer than was necessary to change into jeans and a t-shirt while silently venting at the injustice of the world. This was supposed to be his day with Sara. Why was Astrena's timing so lousy?

When he came out, El was no longer in the living room.

"She went downstairs to raid June's kitchen," Peter explained. "I'm reliably informed that your pantry's on the bare side. A few boxes of protein bars don't count. I'm giving you advance notice, we're not leaving till you've eaten solid food which doesn't come out of a foil package."

Neal shrugged. "Shopping for groceries hadn't been a high priority the past week."

Peter frowned. "It should have been." His eyes swept across the loft, resting on the French doors. The terrace was in bright sunshine. "Would you like to go outside?"

"Sure." Neal knew he was in for it. The Talk loomed in front of him, and Peter was well aware he responded better to such situations outside. "I've got some of Mozzie's honey mead chilled for you." He went to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle. There was an open bottle of Fumé Blanc in the door, and he poured himself a glass, glad that Christie hadn't slapped any drinking restrictions on him.

They took their seats at the glass-topped patio table and clinked glasses. Neal took pity on Peter and made the opening move. "You want to shut down the con."

"Don't paint it in such stark terms, but yes, we need to reassess. You're in no shape for undercover work, and you know it."

"Neither is Bianka. I called her last night and again this morning. Her doctor's confined her to the hospital and has ordered a battery of tests to try to pinpoint the cause of her recurring bouts of intestinal flu. Here's a thought. Christie could put me in an adjacent room. We could have clandestine assignations in the supply closet."

Peter chuckled. "Tempting as it is to have you under supervision, I have no desire to play the Hospital Game with you. You'd probably feel honor-bound to hide somewhere inaccessible just to prove a point."

Neal shrugged. "Much as I'd enjoy the chase, it's not worth being confined."

"Don't look so gloomy. The news about Bianka takes the pressure off. We can postpone a decision for a few days. Once she leaves the hospital, you can play the mono card. That will buy more time."

Neal detected the faint glimmer of sunshine on his overcast horizon. Peter hadn't mentioned anything about classes yet.

"Tomorrow you'll see Christie," Peter continued. "Unless she notifies me that you've experienced a miracle cure, you'll work from home next week. Understood?"

Neal would much rather go to the office where there were more distractions, but what Peter proposed was reasonable. "I could use the time for the Renoir forgery," he conceded.

"That's an understatement. I noticed the canvas on the easel." He raised a brow. Peter realized that normally Neal wouldn't have been able to leave it alone. "Make that your assignment."

"I'll finish it by the end of the week," Neal promised, relieved that Peter didn't ask why he hadn't made any progress on it.

"On Friday you'll go back to Christie for a follow-up exam. Henry returns the following day. Based on Christie's assessment, we'll reevaluate with Henry how to proceed. Is that fair enough for you?"

Under the circumstances, Peter was being more flexible than Neal expected. But he was still stuck with Mozzie as a roommate and he'd have limited opportunities to talk with Sara. Sam told him that thanks to Maia he was getting his best rest in over a month. Neal's experience with Sara had been the same. If they'd only been open about their relationship, he could be spending the night with her instead of with a man who hummed arias all night.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

When Mozzie arrived that evening, he set up Neal's loft to be mission control for the "Save Our Marsh" initiative. Encouraged by the support of festival-goers and the twenty thousand-plus names on the petition, his enthusiasm for the project had soared to new heights.

Mozzie had spotted Tricia with her family at the festival. When Neal heard they were dressed as Robin Hood, Maid Marian, and two mini Merry Men, he regretted having missed them, but Mozzie was more interested in Mitch the archaeologist. Peony hoped to be able to borrow one of the pottery shards found at the building site to invoke a Lenape spirit at a séance. Mitch promised he'd try to make the arrangements.

Conjuring up a spirit sounded incredible to Neal. But then who would have believed in leech zombies or an ancient leech-man prowling Columbia? Or, for that matter, a goddess sucking out his life force?

After dumping his laptop and a thick folder of printouts on the dinette table, Mozzie headed for Neal's easel. If he planned to inspect the painting, he'd be in for a disappointment.

"You've only blocked out a couple of forms," Mozzie said, pointing out the obvious. "This isn't like you. What's the problem, _mon frère_?"

Neal studied the blank surface gloomily. "I'm too consumed by Goya. My thoughts are filled with the Marquesa." He didn't admit his greatest fear—that the demon Scarbo would sneak in and ruin the painting. At night, with every rustle he heard, he was reminded of the demon. As his dreams became darker, they were bound to affect his painting. The artist in Connecticut had experienced a similar progression. If Neal started the Renoir, and it turned into some nightmare scene, it would be a confirmation for everyone to see of how low he'd sunk.

"I know what will banish Goya," Mozzie said, snapping his fingers. "Debussy, Ravel . . . you'll soon be in the mood."

"Not Ravel's 'Scarbo,' " Neal pleaded. Ravel had written a famous composition about the demon. That was the last thing he needed.

"Are you seeing him?" Mozzie demanded, scrutinizing him as if he were a new type of cave slime.

"Sometimes," he admitted. "Particularly at night."

"Then we'll stick with uplifting pieces like _La Mer_ and _Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun_." He reflected for a moment then snapped his fingers. "What you need is Scheherazade! I shall entrance and mesmerize you with stories throughout the night."

"You're not going to dress like her, are you?" With Mozzie, it was always best to check.

"Or burn incense? We'll hold off on that for now. But the magic of my voice will banish Astrena to the nethermost regions where she belongs." He rummaged in his gym bag and pulled out a CD carrier. "Fortunately, I came prepared for every contingency. I have both the Rimsky-Korsakov and Ravel versions." Mozzie rubbed his hands together. "You have the Renoir. I have the marsh. Together we'll achieve miracles."

As Mozzie rattled off his plans, Neal got out his art supplies. He didn't generally paint to music, but as a way to block out Goya, he liked the idea.

And it worked. He painted for hours while Mozzie spun stories of the Lenape in Inwood Hill Park. Neal knew that Mozzie was a master storyteller, but that night he was inspired. Tales of love and adventure flowed in quick succession. Neal wasn't about to complain that many contained a wise shaman guiding a young warrior to victory.

They took a break sometime past midnight—Neal didn't bother to check the time. He sprawled on the couch and put his feet up. "Have you ever thought of writing historical romances?" he asked, raising a glass of wine to his Scheherazade.

Mozzie plopped into the armchair next to Neal and rested his elbows on the arms of the chair. "I have, but I was never sufficiently motivated. Perhaps if I ever hit a lull. Now that our honey mead is a success, the honey wine business can proceed on its own with only an occasional refinement. Do you think it's time for me to share my gift with the world?"

"It's working for me." His eyes drifted to the Renoir. Like the Goya work, it was also of a woman, but the Impressionist work was colored with a pastel palette. After the con was finished, Neal intended to give the portrait to El. The woman in the painting reminded him of her. In some of his darker moments, he wondered if he'd be able to complete it before—

"Where did I stop?" Mozzie mused, gazing up at the ceiling. "Ah yes. As the thunderbird flew into the sky, young Odina . . ."

Neal returned to his canvas, taking the glass of wine with him. What with his painting, the music, and Mozzie's tales, there was no time to brood . . .

He awoke to someone shaking his shoulder. "What?" he mumbled, disoriented.

"Your Castilian is superb," Mozzie said, "but now is not the time to work on your Renoir. I fear you'd be blending the streams."

Neal stared at him numbly as Mozzie guided him to one of the dinette chairs. "You fell asleep three hours ago," he explained. "Just after Mitch called, you got out of bed and walked over to the easel. You were talking with someone—perhaps the Marquesa—in your sleep."

Neal sat at the table, dazed, while Mozzie set a cup of coffee in front of him. Neal wrapped his fingers around the mug, hoping the heat would revive him. The Marquesa was upset with him. She demanded a new painting. Why was he working on the Renoir, when he should—Neal mentally shook himself. Mozzie was continuing to talk to him. This was reality. Not the Marquesa. Not Scarbo who'd leaped on his bed to wake him, biting him, poking him. Neal felt his neck cautiously. No bite marks despite it having felt so real. He could feel Scarbo's fangs piercing his skin.

Slowly the fragments of memory made sense. Around four in the morning, he'd reached a good point to quit on the painting and had cleaned his brushes. Mozzie was dozing on the couch. He'd finally worn out Scheherazade.  Neal collapsed on the bed and slept dreamlessly till Scarbo arrived.

If Mozzie hadn't been here, would he have destroyed the Renoir?

"Have some of that coffee. I brought over Kona coffee beans from the Emporium."

"You mentioned Mitch called?" Neal asked, forcing aside thoughts of the Marquesa and Scarbo.

Mozzie grabbed a chair and perched sideways on it. "He arranged for me to borrow a potshard! While you're at your appointment with Christie, I'll swing by NYU to pick it up. I'm sure Peony will want to conduct the séance tonight."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

The results from Christie's exam were inconclusive. Neal's blood pressure was fine, but he'd have to wait for the results of the blood work. It was a similar situation for Sam. When Neal asked him how his night had gone, Sam joked that Maia's presence was giving him sweet dreams.

If Sara had been sleeping with Neal, would his dreams also have been better? He vowed to paint through the night to avoid any recurrence, but realistically how many sleepless nights could he endure before crashing? Would Astrena and Scarbo be even more vindictive?

Another murder victim had been found. This one was north of Columbia and close to the Hudson River. There were also more reports of missing persons. It had gotten to the point that Hughes was seriously considering informing the police about Weewillmeku. If only they had more concrete evidence than the bizarrely shaped wounds, he would have already done so. Peter spoke with the police detective in charge of the case, and he was convinced that it was either a deranged madman or a serial killer with a perverse sense of humor. Ancient leech-spirits were a non-starter. Although the howls continued, no one had been able to tie them to a visible sighting. And as for the zombies on a college campus, only Mozzie and perhaps the Winchesters treated them seriously.

Sara texted him several times during the day. Now that Neal had Nurse Mozzie watching over him, speaking with her was a challenge. Their situation like everything else in his life was growing intolerable. Under the circumstances, having another séance to attend didn't seem like a bad idea. At the minimum, it would give him something else to focus on.

That evening there were seven of them gathered around Peony's table. This was Peter's first time to attend a session. He sat next to Neal. Mozzie claimed the seat next to Peony, with Chloe sitting between Dean and Sam.

As usual, Peony had slung a tapestry shawl over her cardigan and draped her head in a silk turban. Neal had been skeptical about the attire the first time he saw it, but Chloe explained it helped her focus. He could relate. The clothes he wore during a con were an essential element of shapeshifting into a different personality. 

Peony had requested they bring photos of the leech wounds and the drawing Neal had made from Dean's description of Weewillmeku. She'd nestled the potshard on a mound of cuttings from the marsh located next to the sports complex. She'd collected marsh water to use as a component in her infusion. The embossed silver cauldron was sitting on a hotplate in the center of the table. Neal could smell sage, rosemary, and a whiff of maple.

Maia was the only one not attending the session. When Neal asked Sam about her absence, he said she'd wanted to spend the time on researching a cure. Sam suspected she was also nervous about seeing a spirit. Neal didn't blame her. Peony was attempting to summon a Lenape shaman. The only other spirit Neal had encountered outside the ones in his dreams was a swamp spirit in southern New Jersey—not something he wanted to revisit.

Peony began murmuring softly. The words were in Latin and appeared to be a series of prayers. The air slowly grew more oppressive. A damp chill settled into the room. Neal felt his forehead. It was clammy to his touch. The only light was being provided by tapers in silver candlesticks. He gave an involuntary shudder as the hair on the back of his neck began to prickle.

He glanced at Peter and he was staring at the smoke wafting out of the cauldron, his mouth set into a tight scowl. Quantico training didn't provide any guidance on séances.

Peony picked up the potshard and held it in her outstretched palm as she leaned over the cauldron. Gently she blew on its surface. Her bracelets jingled with her movements.

Slowly a ghostly shape coalesced in the steam. Neal saw antlers on top of a dark head. Features sharped. Then abruptly it disintegrated.

Peony sat back in her chair and breathed heavily. "I couldn't hold onto it," she admitted. "Did you see it?"

Neal scanned the others and they were all nodding.

"Can you try again?" Dean demanded.

"I fear I'm not powerful enough." Peony turned to Chloe. "You should try, love."

Chloe looked shocked. "Me? I've never invoked a spirit."

"Yes, you have," Sam said. "The swamp spirit? You may not have intended to summon it, but it answered your appeal."

Dean made rumbling sounds in his throat. He'd made no secret of his unease in having Chloe involved in anything psychic.

Sam turned to him. "Look, I'm sorry if Chloe has abilities you're not comfortable with, but Peony's right. We have to let her try."

"But I don't know the words," Chloe objected.

"That's all right. I have them written down." Peony stood up and went over to the bookcase where she retrieved a small black journal from a locked drawer. Neal eyed it curiously as she thumbed through the pages. There were no illustrations like in the Winchesters' journal, but the text was written by hand.

Peony stopped on a page in the middle of the journal and pointed out a section to Chloe. "Let's say it together."

As they began to chant the words, the air once more grew cold. Neal felt his breath quicken as the figure reemerged. This time he grew ever sharper in focus. High cheekbones and an aquiline nose. His hair hung loosely onto his shoulders. He appeared to be draped in a blanket adorned with feathers.

Peter's hand clamped onto Neal's arm as he leaned back from the table. Neal did the same.

The figure moved out of the smoke and toward Chloe until his face was directly opposite her. She looked terrified but she continued the chant.

Dean started to stand up but Sam pressed a hand on his shoulder to hold him down and gave him a forceful head shake. Dean relented, but his face hardened into a frown.

Without warning the figure spun around to face them, his back to Chloe. He appeared as a translucent overlay with his head directly in front of hers. Chloe, breathing heavily, was frozen in place.

"Don't interfere," Peony warned in a low voice. "He's chosen a suitable vessel to speak through. He will translate his thoughts through Chloe's mind for us to understand. You may now ask your questions."

"Who are we addressing?" Sam asked.

"You may call me Raincloud," Chloe said in an expressionless monotone.

Peter swallowed. "Where are you from?" he asked in a strangled voice.

"My people lived hundreds of years ago on the island where you now dwell. We have watched for centuries what you have done with our land and our waters."

Chloe's face registered no emotion, but Raincloud couldn't be pleased with the transformation.

"We believe Weewillmeku is angry with us," Mozzie said. "Can you sense his presence?"

"Weewillmeku has arisen. He seeks vengeance."

"Why has he waited all these years?" Neal asked. "Is there something new which has caused his displeasure?"

When Chloe didn't respond, Peony murmured, "He's reading her memories." She blew lightly on the infusion to make the steam waft in Chloe's direction.

"You have disturbed Weewillmeku's spawning ground. Countless eons ago he was born in the waters north of the island. That marsh which you are destroying is sacred. You will have to bear the consequences."

"Is there any way to appease him?" Sam asked.

"Yes, but I have no reason to come to your aid."

"If we can protect the marsh, will you help us?" Mozzie asked.

With a rush the shaman flew to Mozzie, pressing his face to within an inch of Mozzie's nose.

"Prove it!" Raincloud hissed. An instant later the spirit vanished. 

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

When the séance began, Maia retreated to Peony's dining room with the two grimoires. The room provided a safe retreat since it was normally only used for breakfast and lunch. Maia had her laptop to make notes. Peony had made her a pot of tea which was now sitting under a pink knitted tea cozy on the sideboard. Tatyana was curled up at her feet.

Maia had been careful to stay away from any of Peony's sessions, fearful about what the psychic might sense about her. Peony's talent was formidable. If this were ancient Greece, she'd be honored as a seer. She reminded Maia of the ancient druidess who'd long ago foretold her future. The vision had been so terrifying—of Maia being ripped from her home, drinking blood, entering strangers' minds—that she'd run away to hide in the forest. It took her father days to find her. He tried to tell her that the druidess had been wrong, but there were no comforting words from her mother. She knew the truth.

The door opened and Chloe walked in. "You missed quite a session." Her face looked drawn, and Maia immediately went into protective mode, berating herself for not having been there to support her cousin. 

"Are you all right?"

"I think so." Chloe eyed the teapot. "I don't normally drink tea, but I'll make an exception."

"I'll get the tea. You need to sit down and rest."

Chloe told her about the shaman which Peony and she had conjured. "It was the strangest feeling. I sensed his presence in my mind. I saw images of encampments along the river. I shared his outrage for what we'd done to their former home."

"And now?" Maia asked, pouring the tea into a cup and adding extra sugar before giving it to Chloe.

"He's gone. No damage done." Chloe might think she was fine but she still looked shaky. The china cup rattled on the saucer when she took it from Maia.

"What did Peony say?"

"She believes I have an inherent ability to connect with spirits. It may be something which runs in my family, although I don't know of anyone else who has the talent. When Peony started discussing it, Dean freaked out. You know how uncomfortable he is with my ancestry."

Maia nodded. "It's understandable. From what you told me, he's only been around destructive witches."

"He's trying to adjust. There's a psychic in his hometown whom he respects . . ." She smiled ruefully. "But he's not sleeping with her." She took a sip. "Have you ever felt any psychic abilities?"

"What do you mean?" Maia asked, startled

"I don't know. Visions? Premonitions?"

Maia didn't want to lie to her. "I've never felt anything unnatural." That was true as far as it went. She couldn't remember what it was like to feel normal.

"Let me know if you do."

Had Maia inherited any gifts from her mother? She'd been revered as a healer. Later, Maia acquired powers when Electra elevated her to be a sister. How many lives had she consumed as a consequence? If her mother were alive, she'd despise her for what she'd become. Maia felt her cheeks grow hot with shame. 

"Don't worry," Chloe said. "I'm sure you would have noticed if it were anything significant." 

Maia rushed to change the subject. "Did Raincloud give any hints on how to appease the leech-spirit?"

"No specifics. Mozzie's convinced that saving the marsh is the solution. Raincloud will take it as proof that we're worthy of being rescued. Dean and Peter are skeptical, but Sam believes Mozzie could be right. If that marsh is a sacred area, saving it might convince Weewillmeku to leave. Those zombies we've been seeing? Raincloud says that they can be returned to their normal selves if we act in time. Otherwise, the process is irreversible and they'll become killing machines."

"How much time do we have?"

"Raincloud warned that by the next full moon it will be too late to undo the damage."

"Is Columbia at all interested in saving the marsh?"

"I don't think they're opposed to the idea per se, but they already have an offer from a developer. The land would provide needed funds for the school. What we need is some wealthy benefactor to take up the cause and provide the funds."

Electra's foundation was actively seeking worthwhile projects. Could Maia persuade her to sponsor the marsh's rescue? What would she demand in return? Maia decided not to mention anything to Chloe until she found out if there was any hope. Besides, there was something much more vital to discuss. "I believe I may have found the potion."

Chloe let out an audible gasp. "You did? Which book?"

"It was a combination of both of them. _Armid's Garden_ references an ancient formula but I couldn't identify the flowers she described." Maia pointed to the open page in Chloe's grimoire. "I was able to find the same formula in my book. Most of the ingredients are readily obtainable. There's a spell which needs to be chanted in Greek. I can manage that. One of the ingredients, though, is the bloom from a Greek orchid called Eurydice's Tears. It's a late variety—and quite rare."

"Perhaps Billy grows it."

She shook her head. "I already checked with him, and he doesn't have any Greek orchids, but I believe Electra has a specimen. I plan to go there tomorrow. If it's in bloom, I'll bring back a flower. All we need is one."

"How sure are you that this will work?"

Maia hesitated. "If I can obtain the orchid, I believe we'll be successful."

"We can test it on the mice first. Poor things. They've hated cheese ever since I cast a spell on them. We probably should wait before saying anything to Dean and Sam, in case it doesn't work."

Counteracting Chloe's cheese-aversion spell was simple. Maia could do it now, but it would be better for Chloe to think the potion had provided the cure. "It's also important that you never mention this to Electra. She's very protective of her orchids. I don't think she'd approve." That was an understatement. If she found out Maia had stolen a soul-orchid, Electra would kill her on the spot. The plant should have enough blooms that Electra might not notice one missing. If not . . . At least Sam and Neal would be free. After all her misdeeds, it was a small act of penance.  A vampire had siphoned off Sam and Neal's blood for Electra, and now a vampire's soul trapped within an orchid bloom could save them.

Maia would wait till the next day to return to New Haven. Nights she needed to be here to protect Sam. She might not be able to keep Electra from entering his mind, but she could overlay the nightmares with happy scenes so he could sleep undisturbed. And as for that demon Scarbo, he knew better than to attack when Maia was around.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Maia could have teleported to Electra's house in New Haven, but she chose to go by train instead. She was glad she'd picked a conventional means when Sam offered to drive her to the station in the Impala. If Electra caught her stealing a soul-orchid, this could be their last time to see each other. When Maia kissed him goodbye, she tried not to let any of her somber thoughts leak through. If she didn't free Sam, Electra would kill him. This was his only hope.

Electra had returned to New Haven on Sunday evening. During the week, she worked at the bookstore. The risk of discovery was small. Electra was conscientious when it came to her business. The soirées she hosted for visiting authors and artists were a source of great satisfaction. Recently they'd become even more meaningful. She'd managed to tap into the appreciation she received from them just like the chants of the Wiccans or the supplicants to her foundation. They all added to her power.

Watching a performance of _Bell, Book, and Candle_ had given Electra the idea for the bookstore. She'd owned the establishment for five years now. She could probably continue for a few more before her customers began to wonder why she never aged. Then she'd be forced to sell it and assume a new identity. Until now, Maia had never questioned having another life. But she'd also never considered going behind Electra's back.

When she arrived in New Haven, she took a cab to Electra's house in the woods. If Electra's car were parked in the garage, she'd have to postpone the attempt. As the taxi neared its destination, her heart began to beat faster. She hadn't done anything so dangerous since she'd been a child in Ireland. Then she'd had her brothers, Fraech and Taliesin, to protect her. Now, she'd be on her own.

Electra had restored the nineteenth-century mansion of a wealthy banker into its former Victorian splendor. She'd maintained a fondness for the Pre-Raphaelites ever since she fed off Dante Gabriel Rossetti. In a real sense, her home was a tribute to him. Her upstairs study was graced with one of his paintings. The stained glass panels in the salon came from Cumbria and were designed by the Pre-Raphaelite artist Edward Burne-Jones. Electra had modeled the conservatory from plans of a house in Middlesex where she'd lived in the late 1800s.

As expected, there was no car in the garage. Maia entered through the front door, using her key for the lock. She paused in the hallway to listen, but there were no sounds. Electra always took her cat Daphne to work with her. Scarbo only came out at night. Mai crept through the salon into the conservatory. At its far end, a beveled-glass mahogany door opened into her destination—the grow room.

Orchids grew everywhere—clinging to the walls and cascading from the shelves.  They were woven into vines which dangled down from lattice frames attached to the ceiling. Maia's own orchid room was tiny in comparison. She passed the jocular bee orchids. They reminded her of miniature chortling Buddhas. The monkey orchids jeered at her from a bench. She never trusted them. Had Electra turned them into spies? The lovely white dancing orchids seemed innocent, but nothing was safe in Electra's orchid room.

Before Electra abducted her, Maia's mother had trained her in the magical use of herbs. When Electra snatched her away, she placed Maia under the tutelage of the best seers in Athens. Maia's grimoire was the results of the accumulated knowledge. She wrote it in Archaic Irish, the earliest form of the language. As far as she knew, Maia was the only one who'd ever written it down. She used the Greek alphabet to capture a rough approximation of the sounds.

Electra didn't know about Maia's book, and even if she found it, she wouldn't be able to read it. Looking back, it was hard to remember what caused her to hide it from Electra throughout their long association. Perhaps it was because much of the knowledge predated Electra. It was the only bit of her life in Ireland Maia had to cling to.

But she'd never realized it contained the magic to sever links. The formula for the potion was in _Armid's Garden_. It was a puzzle how Harriet Beaufort had discovered it. She'd lived in England as well as Ireland. Could she have been friends with Electra's sister Gemma? She was a skilled botanist and would have enjoyed Harriet Beaufort's company. And since nothing was revealed about soul-orchids, the recipe for the potion was harmless. But the way the orchid ingredient was described, it could only be a soul-orchid. When the potion was used in combination with the spell in Maia's grimoire, Sam and Neal should be free.

After Electra elevated Maia, she told her she could extract the souls of vampires and place them within flowers. The process was a difficult one. Only Electra could capture their souls before they were sucked into Oblivion, the netherworld of dark spirits.

Maia had asked her once if she could ever learn the technique. She could still hear Electra's peals of laughter in response. The act was one of the most draining spells Electra cast, but now that she'd grown more powerful, it didn't take as long to reenergize her strength. 

Maia's heart thumped a frantic drumbeat as she sped to the pot of Eurydice's tears.

Carmine-red orchids with faces as dark as their souls. There were ten blooms. It was unlikely Electra would miss one. The flowers eventually withered on their own. If Electra noticed one missing, she probably wouldn't look for the withered petals, or so Maia hoped.

She took out a glass jar from her barrel bag and rotated it slowly in her hand. Should she also drink the potion? Rupture her link with Electra?

Maia had never considered herself a vampire but she'd acted like one—drinking blood, feeding off artists, poets, and musicians for uncounted centuries. Under Electra's tutelage, she'd become a monster. She'd broken free for the moment, but as long as the link was in place, Electra could command her to do her bidding. Once Electra knew the connection was broken, her rage could destroy them all. Unleashing a war of vengeance would accomplish nothing.

Aghast at the realization, Maia faltered. There had to be a way to prevent Electra from seeking retribution. Could Maia persuade her they'd all been victimized by someone else?

Electra's father, Erebus, was capable of severing links but he hadn't intervened for centuries. Electra's younger brother Thanatos, on the other hand, had potential. Maia knew him from the early days of the Roman Empire. He was spiteful, malicious, and he despised Electra.

Erebus had granted him dominion over Oblivion. The realm of murdered witches, vampires, and vengeful ghosts provided a seemingly endless supply of soul-orchids. Thanatos had the means, the knowledge, and the motivation. Most important of all, Electra hated him. She'd believe him capable of sabotage.

Maia rummaged in her bag for the pair of surgical scissors. With one snip, the deed would be done. The soul-orchid would last for forty-eight hours in the jar. Plenty of time to make the potion.

She steeled her nerves, held the jar directly under a bloom, and severed the stalk. Secreting the precious contents in her bag, she darted to the glass-paneled door and cautiously scanned the adjacent salon. No one was around. She was home free. Maia's breath came out in a _whoosh_. She hadn't realized she'd been holding it for the past few minutes.

Silently she opened the door and slipped into the conservatory. She'd teleport from there to the Columbia campus and then take a taxi to the B&B.

"This is a surprise." Crowley popped into view at the entrance to the salon. "Has little mouse come to play while the cat is away?"

How long had he been there? Maia swallowed down the panic. He couldn't have observed what she'd done in the orchid room. "You're just the one I wanted to see." She strode forward, in what she hoped was a confident manner, and took him by the arm. "I have a new business opportunity for Electra and would like your advice on how to proceed."

He appeared to believe her. That was curiosity in his face, not suspicion, right? "Very wise of you to seek me out first. What have you discovered?"

"Electra wants her foundation to have a greater presence in New York City. She also hopes to deepen her ties with the Wicca community. I believe I've found a way she can do both."

 

* * *

_Notes: Skilled as Mozzie may be at storytelling, Neal will need more than Scheherazade next week. Will Maia and Chloe's potion work? Will Electra rescue the marsh from destruction even as she sinks her claws deeper into Neal? Will Scarbo emerge as an even greater threat? We're down to the final two chapters._

_A note about Electra's brother—Thanatos is an actual figure from Greek mythology. Hesiod wrote that he is the son of Erebus (Darkness) and the goddess Nyx (Night) and represents death. I invented the realm of Oblivion and thought he'd make a fitting ruler. Next week, I'll have more about Electra's family tree._

_Mozzie's skills as a storyteller are the subject of this week's blog:[Mozzie, the Master Storyteller](https://pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com/2018/11/mozzie-master-storyteller.html). In it are a couple of hints about his future endeavors._

_Blog: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation: _ [ _www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com_ ](http://www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com) _  
Chapter Visuals and Music: The Night Howls on the Hudson board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website:_ [ _www.pinterest.com/caffreycon_ ](http://www.pinterest.com/caffreycon)


	8. Potent Potion

**Columbia University. September 28, 2005. Wednesday evening.**

"Any other questions?"

Neal stood to one side of the easel and scanned the audience. His advisor Vanya Sherkov had reserved the largest seminar room at Watson Hall for his presentation, and it was filled to capacity with professors and students. Angela's boyfriend Michael was among them. Although Michael's focus was on contemporary art, he'd asked some of the best questions. Goya had created a technique of slashing brushstrokes which was a forerunner to the anguished, personal expressionism popular during the first half of the twentieth century.

Myra Stockman, Neal's painting advisor, had drilled down on Goya's use of aquatint techniques. The effect was particularly noticeable in his dark witch paintings. As Neal elaborated on the way Goya achieved the effect, he tried to shove aside his personal situation. The next workshop, he resolved, would be on someone far safer.

"Just one," Myra called out. Neal steeled himself. Her questions were always the toughest. Unexpectedly for a petite woman not much taller than Angela, Myra knew how to impale any grad student in their tracks.

"When are you starting on the witches' mural for Halloween?" She turned around to face the crowd. "I assume you'd all like to see him paint it on Watson's central hallway. Am I right?"

After allowing a minute for the students to roar their enthusiastic approval, Sherkov silenced them with a bellow for quiet. "Neal's work on Goya is for his art history doctorate. Mitts off, Myra. That mural's going in Schermerhorn Hall where it belongs."

Afterward, Sherkov stayed around to help Neal and Michael load two carts with the canvases and other supplies he'd brought from his studio. For the workshop, Neal had prepared several paintings in various stages of completion as well as a canvas to make live demonstrations.

"We had far more requests to attend the workshop than we could supply," Vanya said. "Would you mind an encore performance in late October? Then you'll be off the hook for painting that mural."

Neal was glad to accept. Preparation time for the workshops had been much more demanding than he'd anticipated.

"We'd originally discussed you leading five workshops this semester. The Goya will count for two of them. If you pick Italian Baroque masters for November and December, I suspect I could be persuaded to count them as the equivalent of papers for my seminar on the Italian Baroque."

"Thank you," Neal said gratefully.

"You deserve it. It was a bravura performance." His smile widened. "That Spanish accent you adopted transported me back to Madrid." He slapped him on the back. "It was a master touch!"

Neal forced out a chuckle. He hadn't realized he was doing it. It might seem like a joke to Sherkov but it wasn't to him.

Michael pushed the other cart for him on the way back to his studio. Neal's accent hadn't escaped his notice either. "I didn't know you spoke Spanish. That must come in handy for research. I'm no good with foreign languages. It's one of the reasons I chose contemporary art. Most everything is available online and easy to translate."

Neal was glad Michael stayed to help unload the supplies in his studio. Fatigue was setting in, enveloping him like a shroud. He'd survived the workshop on adrenaline but it was tapped out. After placing a canvas on the shelving unit, he paused to lean against the wall and catch his breath.

"You okay?" Michael asked.

"A little tired," he admitted.

Michael studied him thoughtfully. "I bet it's more than that. Flu's going around. I saw Bianka didn't attend the workshop. Is she still sick?"

"She's no longer in the hospital, but her doctor ordered her to stay home for the remainder of the week."

"I hope you didn't catch what she has." Michael glanced at the supplies still on the carts. "I could clean your brushes."

Neal raised a brow. "Have you ever cleaned an artist's brush?"

"No, but how hard can it be? A little soap and water and—"

"Thanks but no thanks." Neal stirred himself to look more energetic. "I'll manage fine."

Once Michael left, he could abandon the masquerade. He was probably just hungry. He'd been living on smoothies all day. Christie would have his head. Was Chloe having any luck with that potion? Dean had reported on Tuesday that she was convinced she was on the right track. She would have gotten off work a couple of hours ago. Realistically it might take days, and who knew if the potion would be effective.

It seemed to take hours but he finally got everything stowed away. Neal sagged against the wall for just a minute. Gravity, however, was too strong to resist, and he slowly slid to the floor. The concrete surface was uncomfortable, but he was too tired to move. Mozzie had said he'd come by in an hour and they'd walk home together. 

He closed his eyes for a brief rest.

**. . .**

"Neal, wake up!"

He flinched at the slap and swatted the hand off his face. At the sight of Mozzie crouched beside him, Neal was too relieved to object to the pummeling. "Did you see him?" Finally, the confirmation was in his grasp.

"See who?" Mozzie asked, glancing around the room.

"Scarbo. Behind the easel." He was dismayed to see his hand shake when he pointed. "Why am I on the floor? I was fighting him off. Did he knock me out? I should restart those kung fu lessons with Billy—"

"Neal!" Mozzie grasped his shoulders. "Listen to me. You were dreaming. Scarbo's not here." He stood up and went over to the easel. "See? Nothing there." He checked one easel after another, looking behind each one. "It's just you and me."

Neal braced himself with a hand on the floor and attempted to stand up. With a groan, he fell back to the ground. No wonder he couldn't fight off Scarbo. His strength had deserted him.

"Can't you stand?" Mozzie scurried back and crouched beside him. "Place your arm around my shoulders and try again."

Using the wall as leverage and leaning on Mozzie more than he ever thought he'd need to, Neal managed a semi-upright position.

"Dean's been trying to call you. Did you talk with him?"

Neal shook his head wearily. "Must still have it on vibrate from the presentation." Or he was too out of it.

"Never mind. I have wonderful news. The potion's ready! Sam's already drunk it. He insisted on being the first guinea pig since he's in better shape. Peony tested him and the link's broken! Dean's coming to pick us up."

Mozzie's words were tumbling out of his mouth faster than Neal could understand. "Slow down, Mozz. Did you say there's a cure?"

"We're going to get rid of Scarbo and Astrena once and for all." Mozzie dragged a lab stool over and nudged him onto it. "Try to stay awake for a few more minutes. I called Dean when I arrived and saw what shape you were in."

"Just resting."

"Of course."

"Neal?" At the sound of the distant voice, Mozzie darted to the open doorway.

"In here," he shouted.

Neal thought he heard the sound of pounding steps of someone running as his eyes closed.

"Don't fall asleep!" Mozzie ordered, shaking him.

"Resting, not sleeping," he muttered. The floor was pulling him downward.

"Looks like the cavalry came just in time."

Neal looked up to see Dean standing at the entrance. He paused briefly to scan him and must not have liked what he saw as a scowl settled on his face.

Neal made an effort to pull his scattered wits together. "How's Sam? Is he really okay?"

"Huh?" Dean stared at him like he was nuts. Had Neal dreamed what Mozzie said?

"He's been like this since I found him," Mozzie said. "Only speaks Spanish. I found it simpler to respond in the same language."

"Well, I don't speak the lingo." Dean's eyes bored into Neal's. "Except for this." He pointed to his chest. "Me, you, _¡_ _Vámonos_ , _muchachos_ _!_ I hope that means to get the hell out of Dodge. Chloe's in the car, parked illegally. C'mon."

Neal tried to puzzle his way through it. Was he really speaking Spanish? He understood Dean fine. Before he could figure it out, Dean was muscling him out of the studio.

The rest was a slow-motion blur of being dragged down hallways. He came to as he was being shoved onto the backseat of the Impala where he collapsed face down. Chloe said something to him . . . Neal waved to Mozzie to handle it. Scarbo leered at him from the front seat. The Marquesa was angry. Her screams rent the air and made him cover his ears. Vaguely he was conscious of Mozzie pulling his hands away.

He went away for a while. When he came back to consciousness, his head was being held over steam rising from a silver vessel. Somewhere he'd seen it before. The steam smelled of angelica and basil. Women were murmuring a soft chant. It sounded like Greek. Mozzie would know . . .

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Neal awoke slowly, hovering for a long time in a state of semi-awareness. He'd been dreaming of Sara lying beside him. He wished he could recapture it. Unless it wasn't a dream . . . He reached out but didn't feel her next to him. Blinking, he opened his eyes to be assaulted by old-fashioned wallpaper with pink roses. Definitely _not_ Sara's room or the loft.

Wherever he was, he wasn't alone. Neal breathed easier when he saw Peter sitting in a wingback chair next to the bed, working on his laptop. Sunlight streamed in through a casement window.

"Hey." Neal cleared his throat at the hoarse croak which came out.

Peter's head snapped up and a broad smile crossed his face. "Is that a Spanish 'Hey' or an English one?"

"I'll stick with English." Neal propped himself up on one elbow. "Where am I?"

"Peony's. Mozzie called me last night. How do you feel?"

Neal considered for a moment. "Not bad?"

"That's kinda tentative. You want to try again?"

"Achy," he admitted. "Like I came down with the flu."

Peter nodded as if he wasn't surprised. "Sam's the same way. That appears to be an aftereffect of the potion." He filled a glass with water from a pitcher on the nightstand and passed it to him. "You're running a mild fever, but Christie's not concerned. She was in to check on you earlier and is with Sam now."

Neal sat up to drink while Peter rearranged his pillows. He wasn't congested, but he had a monster headache and every muscle in his body was screaming foul. "What time is it?"

Peter checked his watch. "Ten o'clock. You've been asleep for over twelve hours."

"And you've been here . . ."

He shrugged. "Me and others. El was here for much of the time. Christie arrived early in the morning. Chloe and Maia have been checking on you. We were all concerned. You were in pretty bad shape when you arrived— hallucinating, speaking in Spanish."

The water felt cool on his throat. Neal glanced down. He was wearing one of his own sleep shirts. How—

"Mozzie went by your place and picked up some clothes," Peter explained, reading his thoughts. "Chloe thought it best for you to stay here till they're sure the link stays severed. Dean and Mozzie moved you into the room last night."

"How do they know the spell is broken?"

"I'm not the best one to ask, but that astral blue trail Peony was able to make visible?"

"Yeah, she tested me and Sam on Monday, and we still had it."

"Well, you don't now."

Neal broke into a grin. "And all I have is the flu? Go, Chloe and Maia!"

Peter chuckled. "You don't even have to suffer the embarrassment of being a dork."

"I may actually get my life back . . . Wow." He'd never told Peter how much the curse had been weighing on him, but Peter understood.

"We both can," he said quietly. "Do me a favor? Stay away from any witches, vampires, or demons for . . . oh, let's go for broke and say the rest of the year?"

"I'll do my best." He settled back into the pillows. "What's been happening at White Collar while I've been out of it?"

"Travis heard from Quint, the computer science student at Columbia. He'd spotted the fellow he'd seen approach the missing student but wasn't able to photograph him. Jones and Diana have arranged to meet with him this evening after classes. They're taking along an artist to make a sketch based on his description."

"I could go," Neal offered.

"Yeah, right," Peter scoffed. "You haven't even gotten out of bed yet."

"I figured it was a non-starter," he admitted, "but you can't imagine how eager I am to resume my life."

Peter nodded understanding. "Give it time. For now, your only assignment is to feel better. Besides, Travis has been working on a digital tool Jones is eager to use. They'll manage. You hear anything from Bianka?"

"She's resting at home. I talked with her yesterday. I followed your advice and told her I came down with mono. By this weekend, I should be ready to resume the con."

Peter gave him a warning look. "I hope your memory's not been affected by that potion. I distinctly recall saying the op's on hold till Henry's back. We'll review it then."

"Rolf and Klaus don't know about your order," Neal rasped. He took a quick sip of water. Sounding like a frog wouldn't be the way to convince Peter he was back. Well, mostly back. "We could hear something about the Vermeer any day." The Dutch master's painting of _The Astronomer_ was meant to activate memories buried within Neal's subconscious. The team believed the Mansfelds had delayed their plan because of the rumors circulating about the U-boat. Bianka's health issues may have also caused them to apply the brakes. But the U-boat con was now over. Bianka was out of the hospital and feeling better. Neal's intuition told him that his grace period was fast drawing to a close.

"Stop it," Peter ordered. "I don't need telepathy to be a mind reader. And although it may be healthy that you're thinking of work instead of some Spanish countess, that's still off the table till you're well."

"But—"

His jaw hardened. "No buts. You want me to use my grizzly voice on you?"

The door opened and Dean stuck his head in. "Sure, I always enjoy your grizzly voice. I could hear your growls from outside the door." He grinned and turned to Neal. "If he's yelling at you, that must mean you're feeling better."

Sheepish, Neal acknowledged it. "Thanks for your help last night."

"Hey, that was an easy one. Usually, my saves involve guns, blades, and corpses to burn."

"Any reports on Willy?" Neal asked, propping himself upright.

"No, although Mozzie continues to send in third-hand reports about zombie sightings on campus," Dean said. "More significant is that a jogger in Inwood Hill Park was reported missing by his girlfriend. He'd gone out in the predawn hours to get in his cardio before leaving for work. Never showed up at the office."

Peter looked at him, startled. "I hadn't heard about that one."

Dean shrugged. "It came in a couple of hours ago. Sam and I have our ways of tapping into police reports. I didn't patrol last night, but I'll be back out tonight."

"You can't go alone," Peter said, "and Sam's in no shape to help. I'll go with you."

As they discussed where and when to meet, Neal kept his grumbles to himself. He was feeling better by the minute. The old Neal Caffrey was returning in a roar. How soon would he be able to escape the floral fluffiness of his room without bringing down the wrath of the grizzly?

A soft knock sounded on the door.

"Come in," Neal called out in a louder than necessary voice.

Maia peeked in, looking worried. "Bad time?"

"Not at all. You're just the one I want to see. You and Chloe were my guardian angels last night."

She blushed. "It was more Chloe than me."

"You're being too modest," Dean said. "Chloe told me the spell and some of the ingredients came from you. She also mentioned what a help you've been with pronunciation."

Neal grinned. "So you're the one who saved me from becoming a dork!"

She laughed. "I guess the dead languages aren't so dead, after all. Chloe asked me to check on you. She's coming back during the lunch hour. From the sound of it, you're doing well."

"I am." Perhaps better than she was. Maia looked exhausted. She was leaning against the wall as she talked with them. Sam had said casting spells could be draining. Was Chloe also suffering? Had Astrena somehow hurt them indirectly? They knew so little about what she was capable of, anything was possible.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

After lunch, Maia changed into a suit. When Sam asked why she getting so dressed up, she explained that she was meeting with a classics professor, and he was too drowsy to question her further. Peter had left once Neal fell asleep. Chloe and Peony had visited both men midday and Peony promised to keep watch during Maia's absence. Tatyana was keeping Sam company . . .

As Maia reviewed her list, she tried to put a lid on her jittery nerves. If Electra suspected her, the consequences would be severe, but that no longer seemed very important.  She'd been able to perform a little penance and for eighteen hours she'd been free of Electra's hold.

The previous evening, she'd sneaked a mouthful of the potion for herself just before performing the spell on Sam. She'd been so preoccupied with treating the others that she hadn't noticed the impact on herself till late at night. She could have cried aloud when she realized the potion had worked. She and Electra were no longer able to communicate telepathically.

Additional verification came in the morning when Electra summoned her via a text message. It was the first time in countless ages she'd resorted to an external means. Maia had been able to stall her till the afternoon. She lingered over a gentle farewell kiss to Sam, hoping it wouldn't be the last one she gave him. He'd smiled at her in his sleep. If her plan failed, that would likely be her last sight of him. If so, it was a good final image. He had Dean to watch over him no matter what happened to her.

She took a taxi to Columbia and went to Hamilton Hall where the Department of Classics was located. Before teleporting, she checked her appearance in the mirror of the ladies' room. The severely tailored lines of the Armani gray suit would meet with Electra's approval.

Maia had never tried to deceive her up to now. Could she really pull it off? She took a breath and focused . . .

When she materialized in Electra's office at her bookstore, the goddess was pacing, her face rigid with anger. Crowley gave a brief nod from his position in a chestnut leather wing-back chair. He was smart, not saying a word.

Maia strode up to her. "When did you notice our link was severed?"

"Just before I texted you."

"Can you reach your other sisters? Alcy? Gemma?"

"Apparently you were the only one targeted. Have you attempted to reach into Sam's mind?"

Maia shook her head.

"Do it."

Maia took a seat on the sofa next to Electra's Siamese cat Daphne and closed her eyes. There was no need to pretend. Instead, she accentuated her effort to contact him, wrinkling her brow in frustration, before finally giving up. "I can't either. What could have caused this?"

"We've become the targets of sabotage, but it appears to be only of select victims. I can no longer reach either Sam or Neal."

"Electra tried connecting with various protégés," Crowley added. "The only links which are severed are to you, Cheekbones, and Moose." He turned to Electra. "I thought you were the only one who could break links."

"Clearly you're wrong." Electra sat down beside Maia and placed Daphne on her lap. "My father is capable of the act but he hasn't descended to Earth in millennia. I refuse to believe he would stoop to something so low."

"But Thanatos would," Maia suggested, seizing the opening that Electra had provided her.

Her face flashed acknowledgment. "Of course! It has to be him."

"And who, pray tell, is Thanatos?" Crowley prompted when Electra didn't explain further.

"Electra's younger brother," Maia explained. "He rules Oblivion."

Crowley waved his hand in a circle. "Don't stop there. Is Oblivion a delicious variant of Hell? Did Junior supplant Hades as the ruler of the Greek underworld?"

Maia flicked Electra a glance before replying. She appeared to be tolerant of his questions. "Oblivion is a separate domain within the underworld. It's inhabited by the souls of vampires, witches, and ghosts who refuse to pass on. Usually, those are vengeful spirits who hold such a strong grudge against whoever killed them that they become trapped in Oblivion."

"In his own world, Thanatos is quite powerful," Electra acknowledged grudgingly.

Crowley raised a brow at her admission _._ "Does he ever journey to Earth to see his beloved sister?"

"I haven't been subjected to his malicious schemes for eons."

"The last time the two confronted each other, they caused Mt. Vesuvius to erupt," Maia added. "After that, Erebus demanded they stop interfering with each other."

"I haven't contacted him since," Electra said. "Why would he want to provoke me now?"

Maia pretended to mull over possibilities although her answer was already prepared. "Your power has recently grown much stronger. He could be jealous."

"How would he hear about it in Oblivion?"

"Perhaps he decided to end the truce. He could have sent a demon to spy on you." Maia sneaked a look at Crowley. Did he suspect her? He was eyeing her appraisingly but he might simply be considering how he could benefit from the revelations.

"I can understand why you'd be targeted," Electra said. "Of all my sisters, you're the only one who lives close to me. But there are very few who know about my links to Neal and Sam. Besides the three of us, only Gemma and Alcy are aware, and they would never betray me."

"You left somebody out," Maia murmured. "There's also Scarbo."

Electra's eyes widened. "What are you implying?"

"Thanatos could have cast a spell on him. He may have established a link." She composed her features into what she hoped was a look of fear. "Thanatos can make soul-orchids in Oblivion. Who knows what binding spells he's capable of?"

"Why would Junior be interested in Cheekbones and Sam?" Crowley asked, looking incredulous. Maia had a moment of panic. Had she gone too far?

Electra exhaled wearily. "It would be just like him to latch onto something petty purely as a means to annoy me. He's always been a trickster."

"Literally?" Crowley asked.

She nodded briefly. "Thanatos is the original trickster, capable of shapeshifting into any human form. And he has the personality to match. Malicious mischief is his raison d'être."

"Scarbo could have told him of your attachment to Neal," Maia suggested.

"And to you," Electra added.

"I assume the link to Maia is easily reestablished," Crowley said. "One bite, you taste her blood, and your bond is active once more."

"Your assumption is incorrect," Electra said brusquely. "Maia is not my protégée. My sisters are demigoddesses. The counterspell that was used not only severed our link but also made Maia mortal. Only at the time of rebirth—the spring equinox—are the stars in proper alignment to elevate a mortal." She turned to Maia. "My child, you'll have to wait to be reborn. You should treat that body carefully."

She was a mortal? Maia's heart stopped for a moment. After all the centuries, she was herself once more. Crowley flicked a glance at Maia as if trying to assess her reaction. She hoped all he read was despair. "How was I able to teleport here?"

"You have a little residual grace," Electra explained, "but within twenty-four hours you'll lose that and all your other powers. You'll begin to age. You'll be subject to human illnesses, wounds, and diseases." She stroked her cheek. "The months will pass slowly, I know. The hardships you'll face till your rebirth I'll consider as sufficient penance. Your recent insolence was caused by your infatuation. I can understand that. We'll talk about it no more."

Maia did her best to appear abjectly grateful while suppressing any hint of the joy she felt. "Scarbo will likely deny any involvement," she warned.

Electra turned to Crowley. "You pride yourself as an expert on demons. How do you advise I proceed?"

Maia anxiously awaited his response. Crowley despised Scarbo as much as she did, but she had no delusions about where Crowley's allegiance lay. What would he view as in his best self-interest?

"Lull him into complacency," he declared. "His treachery will then be more easily exposed. Is anyone capable of following him?"

"Not normally"—Electra's eyes rested on Daphne—"but there may be a way to spy on him. Your advice has merit. It's time I have a little talk with Scarbo. Does he feel ignored?" Her lips curled in a way which chilled Maia's blood. "He'll no longer have cause to complain." She stood up and with a flick of her wrist vanished.

What did she intend? Establish a link to him? To Maia's knowledge, Electra had never drunk his blood. What would happen if she did? Long ago, she'd mentioned Scarbo was a unique demon, crafted by the god Dolos. Drinking blood could have unintended consequences.

Crowley sat down next to Maia. "Dangerous times, little mouse. I find it curious that Thanatos only attacked Neal, Sam, and you."

"He may be in New York. His power could be geographically limited."

"But Electra has many other victims in New York."

Maia swallowed and didn't say anything.

Crowley smoothed his tie with one hand. "In this instance, Thanatos did me a favor. Electra has been much too obsessed with Neal. Severing the connection was a gift. With the moose no longer targeted, we'll be less likely to arouse the suspicions of hunters. Any ideas on how Thanatos was able to accomplish the deed?"

"Perhaps a potion or an infusion. Something could have been slipped into our food."

Crowley placed a hand around her neck and squeezed it gently. "You're mortal now. You'd be well advised to stay out of Electra's way and not annoy her."

She didn't need the reminder. Was that also a veiled threat to not displease him? "Did you speak with Electra about the marsh?"

He nodded. "You can count on Crowley to come through for you. A representative of the foundation contacted Columbia this morning."

No favors came without a cost, but apparently for the moment Crowley's interests aligned with hers, and she could breathe easier.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Neal was awakened by a rhythmic knock in iambic pentameter. Mozzie didn't wait for an answer before barging in, not that Neal minded.  It was his first chance to thank him.

Neal plumped his pillows and roused himself to look alert. He'd been asleep most of the day. Surely that would be enough rest for anyone. "You were a lifesaver yesterday."

"Tosh. It was my pleasure, although I was hoping to get just one more Goya forgery"—Mozz broke into a smile at Neal's moan—"but we'll discuss that later. I have spectacular news that won't wait. The marsh is saved! Maia's sister Electra has arranged for her family foundation to provide the funds. The foundation notified the Office of Gift Planning this morning, offering to match the amount the university would have received from the developer. Columbia, as you can imagine, is thrilled at the resolution."

"How did you find out about it so quickly?"

"We were not without our supporters in Gift Planning. One of them called Janet with the happy news.  I've already told Peony about it. She's eager to conduct another séance this evening. When Raincloud hears about it, surely he'll grant our request."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Peter adjusted his schedule to be present for the séance. The updates on Neal and Sam continued to be positive. Both men were catching up on lost sleep, and the flu symptoms were gradually diminishing.

Dean was waiting for him in the front lounge of the inn when he arrived. Peter didn't see Peony but Chloe was standing in the entrance to the sitting room, talking to a distressed-looking Maia.

Peter jerked his head in their direction. "Is there a problem?"

Dean glanced over at them. "Chloe's trying to convince Maia to attend the séance. Since she's the only one with firsthand knowledge of Electra's offer, Chloe thinks she should be present or the shaman may not believe us. Maia's skittish about the whole talking-with-spirits business."

"I don't blame her. What we experienced last time was something I only expected to see as a special effect in the movies. It's unsettling for anyone."

Dean shrugged. "Hang around me for much longer and you'll get used to it."

Not something he wanted to contemplate. "How are the patients?" Peter asked, switching to what he hoped was a safer subject.

"Doing okay. No one's watching cartoons or singing 'Happy Trails.' Sam and Neal wanted to be present for the séance, but Peony nixed it. She said their auras hadn't recovered sufficiently."

"Is that something we need to worry about?"

"Nah, I think it was just an excuse. Neither one of them put up much of a fight. They're too shaky to be up. Chloe checked on them a few minutes ago and they were both asleep. You hear anything more about that missing person in Inwood Hill Park?"

"He's still missing," Peter said. "That makes the eighth case we're aware of in the region between the university and the Harlem River and west to the Hudson River. Some of those neighborhoods have a relatively large homeless population. There could be more victims than have been reported to us."

By the time Peony was ready for them, Chloe had persuaded Maia to take part. Sam's girlfriend looked pale but determined in the candlelight of Peony's sitting room. She'd clasped Chloe's hand when she sat down and was clinging to it as if her life depended on it.

Peter took a seat next to Dean. Peony had once more draped her head in a dark silk turban. Mozzie often wore silver rings but now he had them on every finger. Around his neck was a silver bolo tie with a multicolor thunderbird clasp. According to Peony, silver enhanced psychic abilities. Did Mozzie's attire indicate he believed he had the Gift as well? Surely the gods wouldn't be so cruel.

Dean had told Peter that silver also had powers against supernatural foes. Silver bullets wouldn't kill vampires, but they worked against werewolves. There was a comforting thought. They might have leech-zombies and an ancient leech-spirit, but so far no werewolves in Central Park. Peter had learned to savor those small happy moments before they too vanished in a poof.

Once Peony brought in her cauldron, she and Chloe began to chant. Just as before, it didn't take long for the shaman Raincloud to make an appearance. When he emerged, he overlaid his ghostly presence in front of Chloe. Maia abruptly dropped her hand as if it had scalded her.

"Why have you called me?" Chloe asked in a low, emotionless voice.

Peony jingled her silver bracelets. "We have news. Weewillmeku's marsh will be preserved. We humbly beseech you to help us inform the great Weewillmeku."

"Many have betrayed us in the past. Why should I believe you?"

"Our friend can confirm this. Her sister saved the marsh. Look within Chloe's heart. You will see the truth about Maia."

Chloe was still a moment, then without warning the shaman rushed in front of Maia, who was now shaking with fear.

Chloe seized her hand and held it. "He won't hurt you," she murmured.

The shaman merged his presence with Maia, enveloping her in his mist, vapor, or whatever it was. Peter felt for Maia. He wished he could have been the one. Mozzie was fingering the rings on his left hand. Was that an attempt to placate the spirit? Peter was so far out of his depth, it was as if he was transported to another planet.

Dean shot Peter a worried glance. What if the shaman wasn't convinced? They didn't have any backup plan.

Then Maia spoke in a flat voice. "This one has Earth in her veins. What she speaks is the truth." Maia turned to face Peony. "I will instruct the women in the chant. Utter this prayer to Weewillmeku. He will understand."

"Do we have to say it in his presence?" Dean asked.

Maia didn't answer his question, but continued to speak in a monotone. "At the moment the sun sets on the horizon, chant to Weewillmeku at his sacred ground. Pray that he will listen to your entreaty."

When Raincloud vanished, Maia sagged back into the chair, speechless.

"Did he give you the chant?" Dean demanded.

Chloe nodded. She uttered something incomprehensible.

"That must be ancient Lenape," Mozzie exclaimed. "Can you write it down?"

"I can," Maia offered.

"Better yet, record it," Dean said.

"Don't think though that you'll be able to use a recording with Weewillmeku," Chloe warned. "It won't work."

"How do you know that?" Mozzie asked.

She frowned. "I can't tell you how. I just know."

"I feel the same way," Maia said. "Weewillmeku is a very ancient spirit. I don't think he's evil. He's simply a force of nature, like a hurricane or tornado."

"Did the shaman convey any impression about the zombies?" Peony asked.

"Not to me," Chloe said. "Maia, anything?"

"They're Weewillmeku's servants," she said, focusing her eyes on the ceiling. "Humans that he's possessed to execute his will. Once he no longer feels threatened, he'll likely release them unharmed."

Peter had no reason to question her veracity, but he wondered where Maia was getting her ideas from. Had Raincloud told her or was she drawing parallels from ancient mythologies?

Mozzie placed his hands on the table and scanned each of them in turn. "We reconvene tomorrow at sunset."

_And hope there aren't any other murders before then._

 

* * *

_Notes:  Neal is curse-free, but Weewillmeku still stalks northern Manhattan. Up to now, his victims have all been strangers, but that won't be the case in Chapter 9. And, in case you're curious about what the zombies are up to, you'll also find out next week._

_I wrote about Electra's family tree for the blog in a post called "[All in the Family](https://pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com/2018/11/all-in-family.html)." Hers are definitely not the kind of relatives you'd like to visit on Thanksgiving. If you're looking for a Caffrey Conversation story about Thanksgiving, Neal celebrated the holiday with family and friends in The Queen's Jewels. _

_Blog: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation: [www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com](http://www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com)_   
_Chapter Visuals and Music: The Night Howls on the Hudson board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website:[www.pinterest.com/caffreycon](http://www.pinterest.com/caffreycon)_


	9. Weewillmeku

**Peony's B &B. September 29, 2005. Thursday evening.**

For Maia, the séance had been her trial by fire. She'd been terrified the shaman or Peony would notice something connecting her to Electra. It had barely been twenty-four hours since Maia severed the link. According to Electra, she was now mortal, but she hadn't had a chance to test it. When the shaman hadn't commented on anything, Maia felt a weight lift off her heart. 

After the men departed, Peony took the cauldron back to the kitchen. Maia also stood up. "I'll be right back," she told Chloe. "I'd like to check on Sam." Once she was in their room, she could use his pocket knife to cut her finger. If the wound didn't disappear within seconds, she'd have confirmation.

"Could you hold off for a few minutes?" Chloe asked. Her eyes looked anxious, making Maia's fears resurface. "I have a confession to make, and I hope you won't be upset. I probably should have checked with you first."

Maia sat back down, hiding her unease over what Chloe might have done.

"I asked Peony if there was any way for us to summon a common ancestor, and she's willing to try. She's preparing the infusion now. Please say you don't mind."

Maia felt the panic rise up in her throat once more. When the shaman's spirit left her, she could have burst into tears with relief. Now she was torn between happiness that Chloe hoped to confirm their blood relationship and abject terror she'd discover Maia's secret.

Peony reentered the room, carrying the cauldron, and placed it on the table. "Aren't you curious, Maia? I'll close the door so no one else will know of our experiment."

"I don't have any brothers or sisters," Chloe added. "I'd like to learn as much as possible about our common heritage."

All of Maia's relatives had died long ago. Would Peony be able to summon one of her brothers?  Her mother? She blinked back unexpected tears, her emotions threatening to engulf her. Chloe's eyes looked bright as well. Maia swallowed and turned to Peony. "Thank you for your offer. I'm ready."

Peony smiled at them, her positive energy radiating onto Maia like a warm hug. "You should hold hands and relax. As I explained to Chloe, since I don't have anything personal from a shared ancestor to use, it's impossible to predict who may appear." She retrieved _Airmid's Garden_ from the locked drawer in the bookcase and placed it on the table next to the cauldron. Maia breathed in the scents of yew and rose coming from the cauldron. Where had Peony found meadowsweet? It had grown in the fields outside her home in Connacht. She let her mind drift.

Peony began chanting softly an invocation in Latin to their ancestors.

The air grew heavy as mist swirled around them. The steam rising up from the cauldron began to coalesce into the figure of a woman. She was dressed in a robe of buttercup yellow, her long auburn hair worn in a braided plait down her back. The woman approached Maia, and their spirits became one. Maia knew immediately who she was—Airmid. She spoke in the ancient Irish of Maia's childhood, her family. Tears flowed down Maia's cheeks as images formed in her mind.

Airmid then left her and entered Chloe. Chloe's face gazed upon Maia in new recognition. What was she telling her?

Peony continued to chant as she watched. A moment later the spirit vanished.

"Oh, my," Peony said, collapsing into her chair. "I think we all need a glass of wine after that. I have dandelion wine in the decanter." She went to the buffet and poured three glasses. "Do you know who that was?"

"Airmid herself," Chloe said, still looking dazed. She tightened her grip on Maia's hand. "Our line goes all the way back to her. She traced the family through Harriet Beaufort, Bridget Bishop, medieval Irish witches, and finally through druids. She called us her daughters." She turned to Maia. "Is that what she expressed to you?"

Maia nodded, unable to express her emotions in words. Airmid was the great-grandmother she'd never met. Her mother had mentioned her, but Maia thought she was simply speaking in general terms. Airmid confirmed the relationship and embraced her as a daughter. She seemed to know about her past—she referred to Maia living in exile—but there was no hint of criticism. Maia doubted anyone else would feel the same way.

"What will Dean say?" Chloe asked, a shadow crossing her face. "Not only do I have witches in my family tree, but I'm descended from the Irish goddess of magic." She exhaled noisily. "This could be the final straw."

"We don't have to mention she's a goddess," Maia suggested. "Many believe she was an ancient druidess who later became worshipped as a god."

"That sounds good," Chloe agreed, taking the glass Peony offered her. "After Astrena, none of us wants to hear about any other goddess."

"I'll second that," Peony said, lifting her glass. "To Airmid and family ties!"

**Later that evening somewhere in the bowels of the Columbia tunnel network.**

Mozzie hummed an aria from Don Giovanni, as he crept along the familiar tunnel. "Madamina, il catalogo è questo" was one of his favorites, and he was feeling as lighthearted as Don Giovanni's servant Leporello. Neal was healed, the marsh was saved, Weewillmeku would soon be appeased, and Mozzie had spoken _twice_ with a shaman. It was time to return to his other studies.

When Quint called, asking to meet in the tunnels that evening, Mozzie agreed enthusiastically. Quint was a bright apprentice. He showed great promise. Really a most fortuitous suggestion of Travis for Quint to be placed in his SETI subgroup. Not all the members were believers in the importance of tunnel slime as an indicator of extraterrestrials on Earth, but Quint had early on showed remarkable open-mindedness. In some respects, Quint reminded him of Neal when they'd first met—a sponge eager to absorb the lessons Mozzie cared to impart.

Yes, he saw great promise in young Quint. Someday in the distant future, the lad might be the disciple to carry the message forward in Mozzie's footsteps. Quint was a little shorter than him, but that shock of red hair made them about equal in height. His new apprentice had never mentioned his family and appeared to be a loner—something to which Mozzie could also relate.

Off in the distance, he spied another headlamp. Quint had arrived. The designated rendezvous location was in one of the old brick tunnels close to Buell Hall, the only surviving building from the pre-university period.

Quint had become his partner in tunnel exploration, taking over for Neal who claimed to be busy with other projects. Mozzie suspected Peter's influence in Neal's professed lack of interest. Ever since that regrettable instance when Neal nearly died in the tunnels after being poisoned, his enthusiasm for spelunking had waned. But no such constraints for Quint. He had the zeal of the newly converted.

"Hey, Mozz!" Quint's grin widened. "Hope you're ready for a deep dive. I believe I may have discovered a new species of slime!"

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Mozzie extracted a specimen bag from his jacket pocket and carefully scraped off a few milliliters of the amber-colored ooze. "If this proves to be a unique type, you should have the privilege of naming it."

Quint pondered the request, giving it careful consideration. "Quime, perhaps?"

Mozzie rolled the word on his tongue. "Excellent choice! I'll label it in the lab. Do you mind if I head back? I should perform tests while the specimen's fresh."

"Not at all. I think I'll explore a little longer."

Quint watched Mozzie recede into the tunnels. He'd never divulged where his lab was, but Quint knew about his bunker. Scarbo had discovered the location. Someday it could prove useful.

The discussion with Mozzie had taken longer than he'd expected. How anyone could find slime so fascinating was a mystery.  Scarbo should have already arrived. Quint walked the short distance to the manhole, removed the lid, and dropped down.

And there was his little pal. Scarbo's bulging yellow eyes and rat face were unmistakable. With his gray clothes, gray cap, and gray face—if ever there was a creature meant for the tunnels, it was Scarbo. Quint had enjoyed introducing him to the network. It provided a convenient place to teleport into without fear of discovery.

Scarbo doffed his cap and gave a low bow. "My lord Thanatos, I'm honored."

Quint saw his greedy eyes scan his hands. It had been so easy to coerce him to his side. The mushrooms of Oblivion were delicious. They satisfied all your cravings while giving you dreams of infinite pleasure. Addiction was a small price to pay. "What news do you have of my sister?"

"Astrena informed me she won't need my services tonight for Caffrey."

"Did she explain why?"

"No, and this is the second night in a row." He leered up at Quint. "I'd tortured him the previous evening. A few more nights and I would have driven him insane. She didn't explain why she canceled."

Quint reached into a pocket and pulled out a single mushroom. The coral cup glowed softly in the obscurity of the tunnel. Scarbo snatched the mushroom from his hand. With one flick of his long tongue, he sucked it into his mouth.

Electra's mood swings were difficult to understand. First, she'd been enraptured by her new protégé then she wanted to finish him off. Had she changed her mind once more? Perhaps she'd been living with humans so long, she was experiencing a midlife crisis. He could exploit that.

Quint had been bored out of his mind. Tormenting ghosts grows stale after a few millennia. When he'd finally discovered how to access the upperworld, it was like he'd been reborn. Finding Electra was trivial. A bookstore owner—what a farcical notion. But that gave him an idea. What she did, he could too. Her bratty handmaiden Maia was a student, a cover which worked equally well for him. Since Electra was apparently concentrating on New York City, he'd chosen Columbia for his playground. He'd known Scarbo since Electra hooked up with the dwarf demon in Rome. In those days Scarbo worked for them both. And the fun they'd had with Nero . . . Ah, now that was the true Golden Age.

Quint returned his focus to the present. Scarbo's tongue was licking around his mouth for any lingering trace of the mushroom. "What about Maia? Did you discover if she knows about Jeremy?"

Scarbo sniggered. "She has no idea he's one of Astrena's pure-bloods. The sisters aid in their creation but don't see the final product. Astrena grows increasingly mistrustful."

"Does she now?" Astrena's paranoia would make her easy prey to torment.

Quint had been waiting a long time for revenge. Now that he'd discovered how to escape from Oblivion, he could take his pleasure at will. She thought her empire was secure. He was about to prove how wrong she was.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"Neal, I don't care what you're doing, let me in!"

Neal strode over to the door while continuing to plead his case with Peter on the phone. "I'm dressed. I'm ready to go. You need me." He slid back the bolt and opened the door to an irate Mozzie who buzzed in like an angry hornet.

"You're right, I need you _well_." Peter's voice was a concrete barricade. "Your job is making that happen. Bureau agents and NYPD are scouring the campus. Dean's searching too. Let us handle it."

"But you don't—"

"No buts. I'm glad your fever's down. Keep it that way and don't make mine go up. Goodbye."

Neal glared at the silent phone. He could meet them there. There had to be some way he could help.

"What happened?" Mozzie asked, wide-eyed. "Was Weewillmeku found?" Neal had already changed into jeans and a turtleneck. He should be helping Peter, not languishing in a room with floral wallpaper.

"Diana and Jones are missing. They'd gone to Columbia to interview Quint early yesterday evening. Christie was working the night shift. She didn't realize Diana hadn't returned till she returned home this morning. She tried to call her and got no answer. That's when she called Peter."

Mozzie sagged like a bag of potatoes into a chair. "What did Quint have to say?"

"They left him at seven o'clock. The Bureau has agents on campus, but so far they haven't found anyone who's seen them. Jones had taken a Bureau car which is equipped with a GPS tracker. The car was found in a parking lot near Quint's dorm." Neal resumed his pacing.

"And where are you going?" Mozzie nodded to the duffel bag on the bed.

"Home. Chloe gave me clearance. I'm fever free. Peony tested me once more, and there's no trace of the link. I can resume my life."

"Is your coordination back?"

Neal hesitated only a second. "More or less. I haven't crashed into any walls lately. I've got to do something. I can't just sit here."

Mozzie frowned. "I'm sorry, _mon frère_ , but the suit's right. Realistically, what could you hope to accomplish? The police and feds are quite capable of searching for witnesses. Have you heard back from Christie?"

He shook his head. "She hopes to have the blood test results back tomorrow. Peter refuses to allow me to return to work till she's given the okay."

"So we wait," Mozzie said philosophically. "One step at a time. You're free of Astrena. We've saved the marsh. My contact told me Columbia's already begun researching names. I suggested a Lenape name. Muscota has a nice ring."

"What does it mean?"

"'Place in the reeds.' Weewillmeku would approve." He lowered his voice as if he were worried Willy was listening in. "Who do the feds suspect?"

"The official suspect is the person Quint saw talking to the students. If there's a criminal ring recruiting on campus, they may have targeted Quint as well."

"It's a bad business. Still, Diana and Jones may be better off with a crime syndicate than leech-mouthed vengeance seekers. Peter didn't banish you from the sunset ceremony, did he?"

Neal shook his head.

"Good. I'll help you move back to the loft. You can distract yourself by working on the Renoir—wasn't it supposed to be done?—then I'll pick you for the evening ritual."

"What will you do during the day?"

"I'll sniff around Columbia for leads. Lady Suit and Wetsuit are my friends, too."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Crowley parked his BMW sedan in the boathouse parking lot by the sports complex. It was a cold, damp start to the day, and he indulged in a moment of grousing over why Electra had insisted he inspect her new project. Her foundation would manage the donation. One of the staff could have easily performed the chore. But Crowley would keep his complaints to himself. Electra was increasingly dependent on him as her eyes and ears, a reliance he carefully nurtured. 

He removed the lens cap of his camera and began snapping photos. The marsh to be saved was a tiny bit of land—nothing like the vast bogs around Canisbay in the Scottish Highlands where he grew up. That brought him up short. Why had he even thought of his birthplace? Was this Maia's doing? Were her notions of clans and fealty messing with his head?

Maia had confided that she grew up in Ireland in the first century BC. Why had Electra gone to the bother to abduct her when the temples in Greece must have been full of eligible nymphs? The only reason he could think of was that her parents were powerful druids. That raised the possibility he and Maia were related. His mother Rowena liked to boast she was descended from druids, and there was no doubt her powers were formidable. Still, her claim didn't mean much. Rowena liked to boast about everything.

One thing was certain. Celtic blood ran in both Maia and Crowley's veins, and that made them blood relations of a sort. Astrena had elevated her to be her sister. Could she make him a god? The thought tantalized him. And now Thanatos had entered the picture. Crowley hadn't thought she feared anyone, but plainly he had some hold on her. What was it? Crowley knew she had the power to place vampire souls in orchids, but apparently, Thanatos could as well. Was he really the one responsible for severing the links or had Maia the mouse done the deed to save her moose? It was very suspicious. And all that meant more leverage for Crowley.

The work on the sports complex was going at full tilt. Electra had paid a handsome sum to save the marsh. Her reward would be the gratitude of Columbia and the local Wicca coven. If he could discover how she channeled their gratitude into power, he could establish an empire with or without her. That thought set a fire in his belly to quench any morning chill.

A sudden gust of wind caught the flap of his jacket. Accompanying it was a fishy smell which assaulted his nostrils. He spun around to see a creature in front of him. A hairless, naked, slimy gray monster of a man with odd webbed feet. His mouth was open like a sucker fish. What kind of demon was this?

Crowley waved his hand to cast him off, but he wasn't quick enough. The monster seized his neck in its mouth. An instant of piercing agony and his world turned to paralyzing fog . . .

"Hagen, answer me!"

Crowley awoke with a splitting headache to the grating sound of some woman yammering at him. He had no intention of responding, especially to someone who used the name of his meatsuit. He wondered vaguely who knew about Hagen, but it wasn't worth the bother of opening his eyes until the drill hammer stopped. His neck was on fire from that leech freak. How dare he treat Crowley, the King of Hell that way? He'd pay for his insolence, although at the moment how Crowley would accomplish it was unknown. Where was his bloody Scotch? Where were his minions?

"He's still out, Diana. There's no point." The man's calm voice was a relief from that harpy. He could share Crowley's Glencraig.

"He's faking it. I saw his eyes blink. Hagen or Crowley, or whoever you are, open your eyes!"

Simply to quiet her, he finally complied. He was in a decrepit, graffiti-scrawled interior. It appeared to be an abandoned meat-packing facility. Multiple levels. Opposite him, swaying from meat hooks, were eight people wrapped up like cocoons in ropes and grimy tarps with only their heads sticking out. He looked up to see he was hung up like a side of beef as well. Not a comforting thought. Who had him on their menu?

Most of the wretches appeared unconscious, asleep or dead.  Scratch that. One definitely dead. But the other two—they were alive and kicking . . . or trying too. On the young side. They seemed vaguely familiar. "Have we met?"

"Warehouse in East Harlem ring a bell?" the woman asked, raising an eyebrow. "A Raphael forgery? Goya bonds?"

"You're with Dick Tracy!"

The guy next to her furrowed his brow. "We're FBI agents."

Exasperated, Crowley heaved a sigh. "I know that, Flattop. You work for Peter Burke—a Dick Tracy if ever there was one. I don't believe we were formally introduced."

"I'm Special Agent Diana Berrigan." She jerked her head to Flattop. "He's Special Agent Clinton Jones. We know all about you."

"Is that so, Breathless? What is it exactly you know?"

Flattop looked at him warily. "Supposedly you call yourself Crowley now."

She looked at him dismissively. "They say you're a demon, but you don't look like one."

"What were you expecting? A red face and horns?"

Breathless glared. "If you are, why are you a prisoner? See, Jones, I told you he couldn't be a demon."

Crowley rolled his eyes. No respect for one's elders anymore. Which would be preferable? Teleporting out of here or setting them on fire? Breathless would be first, just so he could have some peace.

Crowley twitched his fingers under the tarp and . . . nothing happened. He tried again with the same results. Forget the bonfire, it was time to exit stage right. He focused . . . and nothing.  Bloody hell, he'd been neutralized.

"What's the matter?" she jeered. "Lost your magic powers?"

"The place must be warded," he muttered.

"Yeah, yeah. A likely story."

Crowley jerked his head toward Flattop. "Were you also attacked by a bald overgrown leech?"

"You mean Weewillmeku?"

"Say again?" A monster he hadn't heard of? This demanded an investigation. Before he could quiz them further, he heard a shuffling sound overhead. "What's that?"

"Zombies," Breathless muttered, her expression growing grim. "They dragged you in here. We saw one feed off that man." She nodded toward the bearded old-timer. He looked drained of blood. Poor doofus. Even Crowley felt a tiny twinge of pity for the bloke.

A hulking, vaguely male shape lumbered down the stairs. Tatters for clothes. Blood streaming out of his eyes, his mouth appeared to be permanently frozen into a round cavity much larger than any human—or demon—could possibly make. One of Wee Willie's thralls, no doubt. Since when did Wee Willie become such a pain in a demon's ass? Up to now, the only Wee Willie Crowley knew of was in a Scottish nursery rhyme. This monstrosity was no bedtime story.

The zombie headed straight for the last victim in the line of captives, a woman who appeared unconscious. He leaped upon her, his mouth clamping onto her face.

The sucking sounds were the worst. No finesse at all. If Crowley could just cut himself free, he'd show them what a slaughterhouse really looked like.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"Stop pacing," Mozzie urged. "He'll show up."

Neal ignored him. Everyone else had already arrived at the designated rendezvous spot—the parking lot by the Columbia boathouse. Chloe had picked Neal and Mozzie up in her Mustang. Dean brought Maia, Sam, and Peony in the Impala. But there was no sign of Peter's Taurus. Sunset would fast be upon them.

Peter had texted he'd be there, but there was currently a higher priority. Diana and Jones had been missing for close to twenty-four hours with no additional leads. When Peter's car screeched into the lot, Neal exhaled with relief. For once, he wouldn't tease him about his speed-demon habits.

"No news about Diana and Jones," Peter said, jumping out of the car and forestalling Neal's questions. "The only updates are discouraging. We've heard of one more missing person."

"The sun is practically on the horizon," Dean said, cutting in. "Let's do this. If nothing happens, I'll go back on patrol." He was carrying a shotgun. Sam had one as well.

Mozzie scowled at the weapons. "Your firearms send the wrong signal. We're trying to smoke the peace pipe, not further inflame Weewillmeku's anger."

"Humor us," Peter retorted, pulling out his gun. "For all we know, he may consider it a sign of respect."

Chloe and Maia walked to the river's edge and clasped hands. The clouds which had been present in the morning had dissipated, leaving a clear sky with only a light breeze. The women began murmuring the supplication, their voices growing more powerful as they chanted in the ancient tongue. Peony strode over to stand behind them. She didn't add her voice to theirs but grasped their free hands to form a tight triad.

Neal held his breath, waiting to see what would happen. Everyone had their eyes fixed on the river. They'd brought binoculars and were scanning the water for any sign of movement. 

Suddenly they were cast in darkness. A black cloud had appeared out of nowhere and was directly overhead, growing steadily in size. That light breeze was now a stiff wind. Soon the river itself began to churn and seethe.

A clap of thunder caused Neal to jump. It was immediately followed by the crackle of lightning. One bolt after another etched the sky and plunged into the river.

"What the hell," Peter muttered. "Rain wasn't called for in the forecast."

Sam stared upward. "This is no natural phenomenon. Look at the shape of that cloud."

The cloud had coalesced into a gigantic ring with lightning erupting from the edges. So far no rain. Whatever force was at work was more intent on a sound-and-light show. The hair of the women was standing on end from static electricity. Even the men's hair was showing the effect, especially Sam. 

Letting out a curse, Dean dropped his shotgun and shook his hand. And not just him. Peter and Sam flung their guns to the ground, too.

"Electric shock!" Peter yelled over the wind which was now howling. "Drop anything metal. We need to seek shelter."

"No!" Peony commanded. "The chant must continue."

The women's voices carried high over the peals of thunder. The air itself felt charged with some unseen force as they all nervously waited.

Then, as if a switch had been flicked, the wind stilled. A column of water began to rise from the near shore, directly in front of the chanters. Floating in the center was a creature. Bald, smooth-skinned, his mouth gaped open in a large circle. For a long minute, he hovered in the liquid column of water, his eyes fixed on the women.

Mozzie swallowed. "Weewillmeku." His voice was a barely audible whisper.

The creature raised both arms high into the sky and howled, an ear-splitting prolonged roar which lasted for several seconds. Neal heard an explosion somewhere behind them. He turned his head to see dense smoke rising from a building south of their location.

The column of water began to lift once more, quickly rising to the level of the cloud. With one final crackle of lightning, the column disintegrated. As suddenly as it had formed, the cloud vanished, leaving the sky clear once more.

Chloe and Maia stopped chanting. "He acknowledged our prayers," Maia said, gazing upward and looking awestruck.

"They're right," Peony confirmed. "I can feel Raincloud's presence even here. Weewillmeku has been appeased."

Peter shrugged. "I'd rather have firm evidence."

"Will that do?" Neal pointed to the building behind them. A black pillar of smoke was pouring out of it and rising high into the sky where it too quickly disintegrated.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Crowley was all about torture, but he'd always preached the virtue of being on the giving end. No bloody leech-mouthed moron was going to make a sacrificial lamb out of him.

The first zombie had left after it gorged itself but now another one had taken its place. This one was a woman. She probably hadn't looked much better when she was human. She headed straight for a man in his early thirties who was hanging lifelessly in his shroud. Breathless said she'd been able to talk with the bloke earlier last night. He'd been attacked by Wee Willie in Inwood Hill Park.

Crowley attempted to teleport once more with the same dismal results. Flattop's feeble struggles weren't successful either. For one brief moment, Crowley wished Cheekbones were here. Hagen said he was an expert escape artist. They could use a Houdini. After all Crowley had done for Cheekbones, the kid owed him a save. 

A deafening explosion shook the building. _Bollocks_. Crowley coughed and shook his head to get rid of some of the debris which had fallen from the ceiling. Adding insult to injury he was now covered in a thick layer of dust.

The zombie was lying lifeless on the floor, showing that every disaster had its silver lining. A dense column of black smoke rose out of her body and appeared to pass through the ceiling. What was left of her looked like a bag lady. Grimy, her clothes in tatters—she was, as expected, not much of an improvement but at least blood was no longer flowing out of her eyes.

Flattop stared at Crowley. "Did you do that?"

"Much as I'd like to claim credit, it wasn't me."

Breathless was eyeing the column of smoke apprehensively. "Did she catch on fire?"

"No, more's the pity. That smoke was the zombie essence inside her." Crowley looked up at the hook suspending him and decided to give it another try. He was going to take that explosion as a hopeful omen. One blink was all it took. Instantly the rope holding him to the hook snapped and he fell to the ground. Not the most graceful landing but he wasn't going to be picky. With a twitch of his shoulders, the tarps fell to the floor and Crowley was a free demon once more. He stood up, dusting off his suit. Flattop and Breathless were exchanging worried looks. What would he do now?

Crowley took a moment to scan the group of people still suspended from hooks and hesitated.

"How about setting us free?" Flattop suggested. "We didn't harm you."

"You couldn't if you'd wanted to," he sneered. He raised his hand, reveling in the power coursing through his veins. Which one should he take out first?

"You might need our help someday," Breathless said. "Hagen was no killer. We don't have any evidence that you are either. For that matter, we don't have proof of any crimes you've committed. If you vanish, you'll prove you're not Hagen, so we can't charge you with his crimes."

She made an interesting point. Should he cut Dick Tracy's agents some slack? But if he killed them all, there wouldn't be any witnesses to him having been there.

Flattop was looking rather pathetic. Breathless was so covered in dust, inflicting further damage didn't have much appeal. His meatsuit had liked Caffrey. He believed he'd gotten a square deal from Dick Tracy and his minions.

Crowley groaned to himself. Was he going soft? This was all Maia's fault. Her silly notions about clans and families were messing up what should be a simple hack and dispatch. But if Crowley didn't kill them, he'd win points with her. She could help him with Thanatos, put in the good word with Erebus. Killing Flattop and Breathless wouldn't gain him much, but if he let them live, they'd tell Caffrey and the Winchesters. They'd spread the word to other hunters. That was one good thing about hunters. Live and let live was their policy. If Crowley didn't go on a killing spree, he wouldn't be hunted. Now that the hunters were forming an alliance with the Bureau, a little discretion could provide big rewards.

"Let it not be said I can't be generous." With a snap of his fingers, Crowley freed the remaining hooks from the cables, resulting in a gratifying crash of bodies onto the floor. He blinked to loosen the tarps. They could manage the rest on their own. "Remind Dick Tracy he owes me."  Disappearing into the ether had never been so satisfying.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"By the time we got to the building, the smoke had dispersed." Neal paused to refill Sara's champagne glass. He and Sara were celebrating the end of the curse in the best possible way—in bed with a bucket of champagne on the nightstand.

"But the building didn't catch fire?" Sara asked. Her silk kimono was loosely tied. The griffin on her necklace dangled saucily in her cleavage, sparking flames of a different sort.

"No, we didn't detect any damage to the structure. It was an old meat-processing plant. After I provided lock-picking services, we went inside to find Diana and Jones in the basement. They were helping four other victims. Two deaths. The others will recover. Diana and Jones escaped without injury. The EMTs looked them over and allowed them to go home."

"Any word on the zombies?"

"One of them was with them at the time of the explosion. Diana said she collapsed on the floor, a column of smoke left her body, and she was human once more. We found her later wandering in the back section of the building. Dean said that dark smoke we saw outside the building was probably the accumulated essence of the zombies. Several other ex-zombies were scattered in other rooms, including the missing freshman from Columbia."

"Just think of the stories he'll tell his friends about his life in Hotel Zombie."

"They'll have to be inventions. None of them have any recollection of their lives as the walking dead, and so far no one's been able to shed light on how they were transformed."

Sara set her glass down on the nightstand and snuggled closer. "Aren't you surprised that Crowley didn't harm anyone?"

"Jones was particularly concerned that Diana's taunts had angered him." He chuckled. "She countered that the demon secretly enjoyed them, and perhaps she's right. Crowley apparently retains Hagen's memories. He told them to let Peter know we're in his debt now." That action made Neal wonder if Hagen was somehow exerting an influence on Crowley. An exchange of favors sounded like something the Dutchman would argue for.

"Why was Crowley in New York?"

"We can only speculate. Last time we saw him, he was in West Virginia, working with a pure-blood and a group of vampires who were engaged in identity fraud. Diana and Jones have been researching an upsurge of identity fraud activity in New York. Crowley could be involved with it. His presence also raises the possibility of a pure-blood somewhere in the vicinity."

She clasped his arm. "Tell me, you haven't been assigned to the case."

He smiled and kissed her. "Peter's already laid down the law for me not to pursue it. Diana and Jones exchanged numbers with the Winchesters."

"Thank you, Peter!" She leaned her head on his chest. "All's well that ends well."

"Except for Mozzie. None of his photos came out. Apparently, Willy is camera shy."

"I've seen videos of the lightning display. The thunderstorm which came out of nowhere and the spectacular waterspout which accompanied it are the lead items on all the news reports, but there's no mention of Willy having been seen."

"Mozz holds out hope that someone else got the shot. He's already talking about mounting surveillance cameras near the marsh."

She chuckled. "We no longer have any need to be jealous of Scotland. Willy may become as famous as Nessie. Gosh, Diana and Jones safe, Willy happy, you curse-free. What next, Matthew?"

"On to taking down the Mansfelds," he said, stroking her hair. "I hope you don't mind maintaining the masquerade for a little while longer."

 She turned to face him. "Masks are like music—as all minstrels know. Shakespeare would remind us that since music is the food of love, we should play on."

"As you'd like it!" he laughed, delighted at her response. He suspected that this past week he hadn't been the only one who'd wished they could discard the Clueless con. But as long as he had to fool Bianka, they had no choice. Sara knew that too.

"That reminds me," she said. "Didn't you promise me a Renaissance date in costume?"

"I did indeed." He slipped the kimono off her shoulders. "Should we change?"

She smiled and drew her finger down his chest. "Eventually."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"Our best match yet!" Aidan whooped jubilantly as the fencing team walked off the piste. "If we can maintain this level, we'll get that second undefeated season."

Neal shared Aidan's confidence. They'd both competed in épée and saber. Richard was making strides on the foil. Peter, Travis, and Keiko had been there to watch. Neal hoped that his skill at fencing would help to allay Peter's concern about his fitness to proceed with the con. When their fan club walked up to offer their congratulations, they extended an invitation for lunch at the Blue Lion to celebrate.

During the walk to the pub, Neal told Peter, "Henry texted me from the Tokyo airport. He's en route home. He invited us to his loft tomorrow for dinner and wanted to know what kind of takeout you'd like."

"We can do better than that surely. He's got that fancy new grill. Has he even used it yet?"

"No, but Eric has."

"That doesn't count. How about I teach both of you the art of making the perfect Burke burger? My dad taught me. It's time for you to learn the secret ingredients."

"I'm honored," Neal said, touched at the underlying message. "We'll provide the meat, and you know Henry will insist on hitting the bakery for dessert."

"I have exacting standards for the patties," Peter warned. "I'll email you the recipe. The sauce is a house secret."

"Can El join us?"

"No, she'll be overseeing a wedding reception." Peter's face grew serious. "This will be a good time to discuss the upcoming op."

 _And make any needed adjustments_. Neal didn't voice his concerns about Peter restricting his participation. As an expression of confidence, he disclosed, "I've already told Henry about the cure. I intend to give him the long version tomorrow."

"Good. We'll make dinner a celebration."

"Ding dong, the witch is dead?"

"And hope she stays that way. I've decided to place Jones in charge of the Crowley investigation."

Neal grinned. "So he'll be the one to oversee White Collar's X-Files operations—outstanding!"

Peter smiled at his enthusiasm. "Jones's exposure to the paranormal goes further back than the rest of us. I could make the case that his experience with ghost stories when he served in the Navy makes him eminently qualified."

"The past few days were a good initiation to some of the other creatures who lurk in the shadows. With his dedication, Jones is the natural choice."

"Plus he was the one who initially targeted the Dutchman. Crowley the demon will be even more elusive. We know Crowley's affiliated with pure-bloods and Astrena. Until we discover why he was in town, none of us should get complacent."

Neal nodded. "Dean's given me and Sam the lecture, as well."

"Then I know you won't argue that if you're injured, you'll have to be tested. That link could be reestablished."

When Neal started to protest, Peter shot him down. "I don't want to hear it. Until we know more about Astrena, that order's mandatory. We have no way of knowing how persistent she is." He smiled, reducing the sting. "There's an easy way to avoid retesting. Don't get injured."

"And the same goes for you, and Elizabeth, and the team, and Dean, and—"

He laughed. "A little extra caution for all of us is a good thing."

"Has Jones offered any thoughts on why Crowley didn't harm him and Diana?"

"It's odd, isn't it? When Crowley possessed Hagen at the witch-house in Connecticut, he appeared to spare us then set the house on fire. Dean thinks he may be working some angle."

"Or he may just like you? Diana mentioned he'd given you a nickname. You're Dick Tracy, she's Breathless, Jones is Flattop. I wonder what nickname he chose for me."

"Mumbles? Surely not Frizzletop." Peter snapped his fingers. "I know! Junior Tracy."

Neal broke into a laugh. "Hey, it's better than Lips!"

 

* * *

_Notes:  Thanks for joining me on this adventure, and a shout-out to Penna for providing awesome beta help!_

_Neal's reunion with Henry on Sunday will take place in my next Caffrey Conversation fic, The Musicians, but the characters have asked for some time off before that begins. Neal in particular would like to take a break to enjoy being curse-free. With that in mind, here's the upcoming lineup of stories with posting dates:_

_Shadow's Dream (Six-Crossed Knot series in the All Souls Trilogy fandom):  November 28_  
The Red Chamber (Tales from the Library series in the Invisible Library fandom):  December 5  
Lion's Lair (Arkham Files):  December 12 – January 16  
The Musicians (Caffrey Conversation):  January 30 – March 27

_I saved the best news for last. ** trumpet fanfare ** Penna returns with a new Caffrey Conversation story in December!_

_A few notes about this fic:  Neal would hate being called Cheekbones as Mozzie found out when he used the term to describe Neal in canon. In 2014, Columbia University created Muscota Marsh in partnership with the New York City parks department as part of the agreement to build its new sports complex next to Inwood Hill Park. While the description of the marsh is accurate, no Lenape artifacts were found and to my knowledge Electra was not involved in the funding._

_The aria Mozzie hummed is the same one he had Neal train to the season 5 episode "Out of the Frying Pan." Now it's Mozzie who may be heading into the fire. His new pal Quint is actually Electra's brother Thanatos. That trickster will be ready to put his scheme into motion in the next Crossed Lines fic—Columbia Ghost Story—which I'll post in the spring._

_Wishing all who celebrate a Happy Thanksgiving! If you'd like to spend it with Neal and his friends, they enjoyed Thanksgiving in The Queen's Jewels (Chapters 14-15)._

_Blog: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation: _ [ _www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com_ ](http://www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com) _  
Chapter Visuals and Music: The Night Howls on the Hudson board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website:_ [ _www.pinterest.com/caffreycon_ ](http://www.pinterest.com/caffreycon)


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